


Belong

by alice_in_ink



Series: Belong [1]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, Betrayal, Brotherhood of Mutants, Cherik - Freeform, Coming of Age, DEMISEXUAL ERIK, Erik Has Feelings, Erik is a Father, F/M, Family, First Class, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt Peter, Hurt Pietro Maximoff, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Pietro Maximoff, Kidnapping, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mutants, PTSD, Parent-Child Relationship, Peter is a troublemaker, Peter-centric, Pietro Maximoff Feels, Raven/Hank - Freeform, Raven/Hank relationship is a big ole mess, Shootings, So is Cherik's, Surprise Erik You're a Dad, Translation Available, Xavier Institute, dadneto, days of future past, fostering, vengeance, young pietro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 100,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7918621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alice_in_ink/pseuds/alice_in_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Peter had the chance to be raised by Erik (and, by default, Charles)?  My AU on the movie-verse with tons of Dadneto.<br/>Includes some Cherik & Raven/Hank.  Covers pre-First Class and goes through some of Days of Future Past.<br/>(T for language and violence.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: An End and A Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Pertenecer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10284794) by [alice_in_ink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alice_in_ink/pseuds/alice_in_ink)



**OK, I lied. There's some comic-verse, but this AU is mainly movie-verse. I've divided this story into four parts: Prologue, Act 1, Act 2, and Act 3. Each act is too rich to really be divided into chapters in my opinion, so I'll be posting each part once a week so y'all get a chance to read.**

**Enjoy!**

 

**PROLOGUE: An End and a Beginning**

 

_**September 1956, Rural Ukraine** _

Magda Lehnsherr was happy. She was living her childhood dream: a healthy child, a roof over their heads, and a marriage to a man she loved. Even better—she no longer lived in fear of Nazis dragging her family off on their sadistic whims.

Five-year-old Anya swung her short legs against the kitchen chair, singing softly and painting with old watercolors. The chair creaked as the girl moved because everything in this house was old. In fact, the Ukraine house itself was old, but Magda adored its charm. While on the small scale, it was the perfect size for the Lehnsherr family of three.

 _But not for much longer,_ Magda thought to herself as she fondly caressed her faintly swollen belly. She smiled in anticipation of the night. It was tonight that she would give Erik the good news—another baby would be joining them in a few short months.

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

Magda looked up in surprise, not expecting any visitors. Through the windows on her narrow front door, she could see Apostol Melnyk impatiently peering into the house. With a frown, she left Anya's side to answer him.

"Magda, is Max here?" Apostol spewed in Ukrainian as soon as the door was opened. He didn't wait for an answer, stepping into the house and looking around wildly.

Magda frowned at his rudeness but her worry for Erik (known to the townspeople as "Max") overwhelmed a rebuke. "No, he's still at the factory."

Apostol shook his head, wringing his cap in his hands. "He ran out early. He went in to see the Boss, and then he bolted out of the place! The Boss has called the police, Magda! They won't say what happened. They said Max is _dangerous_ , Magda!"

Magda paled, easily filling in the gaps of Apostol's story.

"Mama?" Anya piped up from the table. She looked curiously at Mr. Melnyk.

"Do you know where Max might be?" Magda asked anxiously. She bustled around the kitchen, pulling their three passports out of a drawer and stuffing them into the pockets of her skirt.

Apostol shook his head, still clutching his cap. "No, but they're looking to take him away, Magda. You must—"

"Thank you, Apostol," she replied shortly, pulling a secret wad of money from the back of another kitchen drawer. She tucked it into her skirt and then whirled around to face Anya.

"Mama?" the girl asked, staring up with large, brown eyes. "What's wrong with Papa?"

Magda shook her head and smoothed Anya's short, brunette hair. "Nothing's wrong, darling. Papa will be here soon."

Anya frowned but returned to her watercolor.

"You must go," Apostol urged Magda softly, glancing at the small Anya. "The three of you are no longer safe here."

Magda gave a curt nod and knelt in front of her daughter. "Anya, I need you to go up to your room. Wait for Papa or I to come and get you, alright?"

Anya became distressed. She'd never been left alone before. "Where are you going?"

"I have to go find Papa," she replied calmly, even as her nerves sparked and threatened to crawl out her throat. "I won't go far, just to the edge of the woods."

"I'll go look for him in the city," Apostol offered, backing out of the house. Magda nodded gratefully, and he gave a parting nod before bolting from the property.

"I don't want you to go," Anya pled fearfully, clutching her mother's sleeve.

"I'll be right back," Magda promised, taking the small hands off of her sleeve and into her palms. "You go upstairs and do not come out for anyone but me or Papa."

Anya's lower lip trembled but she pushed herself off the chair obediently. Magda pushed the girl up the wooden staircase, and Anya complied slowly.

As soon as she heard the click of Anya's door shutting, Magda took off running into the woods.

* * *

It hadn't been long. Magda had only been waiting at the edge of the woods for a half of an hour when Erik finally jogged into view.

"Magda?" He looked at her questioningly. He held a leather-bound notebook in one hand.

"Erik, what's happened?" she demanded. She looked him over and found him to be unharmed. "Apostol came to the house and said the police are after you."

Erik's jaw tightened, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Nothing. I used my powers at the factory, and now the men are afraid." He tried to lead her through the woods and back towards their home, but she pushed him off.

"But why the police?" Magda demanded. "Was anyone hurt?"

Erik scowled and shook his head. "They don't understand it, so they want to control it. But we have nothing to fear from them, Magda; we haven't done anything wrong."

Magda searched his eyes and only saw truth. She collapsed against his chest, and he pulled her to him. "Oh, Erik. Why must we always live in fear?"

Erik briefly rested his chin against the crown of her head. "It won't always be this way, Magda."

With a worried sigh, Magda pulled back.

Erik frowned as he looked around her. "Where's Anya?"

It was then that the smell hit them: old wood crumbling under hot flame.

_Smoke._

With a shared look of panic, the parents shot off through the trees, pushing themselves as fast as their legs could carry them. The smoky haze and burning smell assaulted their senses as they neared their home.

"Anya!" Magda called desperately as they reached the wooden structure. The entire first floor was in flames, and smoke clogged the second floor.

"Anya!" Erik called out as they reached the front door. With his powers, he turned the scalding hot, metal doorknob and stepped inside the house. He shielded his eyes from the scorching flames and peered through the thick smoke for any sign of his daughter. " _Anya!_ "

Magda was right as his heels. "I left her upstairs—in her room!"

"Papa…!" The girl's cries were faint, drowned out by the roaring fire.

The only way up was through the narrow passageway of the stairs. The passageway was entirely engulfed in flames. Still, Erik, pushed through the heat towards his lone, crying daughter.

 _CRACK._ A large, burning beam snapped from the ceiling overhead, slamming down towards Erik and Magda. Magda had just enough time to cry out before the beam fell and hit—nothing. Magda blinked through the smoke in surprise. The beam had bounced off of a force field surrounding them. Erik looked down at his hands in astonishment as the beam crackled beside them.

"Erik?" Magda asked, looked at his seemingly normal hands. How had her husband just done that? The beam wasn't even metal.

"MAX EISENHARDT!" The shout came from the front doorway, and the couple whirled in fear. A police officer barged into the burning house, three other policemen flanking him. Still in a stupor, Erik was manipulated into the policeman's grip and yanked away from the burning staircase. "You are under arrest for assaulting—"

"NO!" Erik shouted, writhing against the man. "My daughter! Please!" Another policeman joined his comrade to manipulate the mutant out of the overtaken home.

"No, please!" Magda pled as a third police officer stepped in to pull her from the burning house. She resisted, but the man dragged her out all the same.

"Papa!" Anya screamed from the second floor of the home. "Mama! Papa!" As Erik was pinned down into the dirt in front of his house, he could see little Anya shrieking in the second-story window.

"Let me save her!" Erik pled in a panic. Rage and fear and desperation flooded him, and his eyes pricked at the sight of his little girl trapped in such a cruel, painful manner. "Please! Help my daughter!"

A policeman stomped on Erik's face, kicking his teeth into the dirt. "Nobody's going kill themselves over the kid of someone who is an enemy to the state!"

"Please!" Magda cried, clutching and pulling at the uniform of a policeman. "My Anya! Please, help—" The policeman grabbed her wrists and threw her to the ground. Her head connected with a thick tree stump with a sickening thump, and Magda collapsed lifelessly to the soil.

"PAPA!" Anya's screams grew in desperation and fear.

Erik looked between his collapsed wife and his burning child. He tried to wrench himself away from the policeman with a frustrated yell, and the metal on the men's uniforms trembled.

With chunky, dirty boots, the three policeman held him face-down on the ground. One delivered a kick to his side as another wrestled handcuffs onto his pinned wrists.

" _PAPA!_ _**PAPA!**_ " Anya's screams grew tortured and frantic. Erik could do nothing but listen with tears streaming down his cheeks. And Anya's screams became haunting, indistinguishable screams of agony, rising in pitch and losing all forms of words—until they stopped all together.

Erik was shaking. Tears flowed freely down his face as the idea of his little girl being devoured by flames consumed his mind. These bastards had let her die. These bastards had probably started the fire themselves.

And they. Would. Pay.

The metal buckles on the men's belts began to twitch. The brass buttons on their uniforms began to stir. The policemen looked between themselves in fear, and then their holstered guns began to shudder.

The three scurried off of Erik, and the fourth hurried away from Magda's body. But it was too late for them.

Erik felt absolutely empty. He had nothing left to feel. But at the recesses of the dark edge of his soul, a hatred flickered to life. A hatred that sparked and burned him alive—just like these men did to Anya.

The cuffs on his wrists snapped open and apart, falling to the dirt. It vibrated with all the rest of the metal as Erik pushed himself off the ground and to his feet. With dead eyes and a tear-stained, dirty face, Erik stared at the frantic policemen.

"Stand down!" one of them commanded, pulling out his gun and pointing it at the mutant. The weapon shook, either from Erik's pain or the man's fear. Maybe both.

The other three pulled out their own guns, fearfully ready to fire.

Erik watched them with hollow eyes. There was no point in any dramatic speeches with these men. It would be like trying to rebuke a dog for a mistake it'd made hours ago; it was too small-minded to connect the meaning of its actions. These Homo sapiens could never comprehend what they had done.

So Erik Lehnsherr turned the four men's guns around in their hands. They watched in mute terror as the barrels faced them, and then they watched in mute terror as the guns cocked.

Four guns fired before a single man had the forethought to run.

The policemen crumbled to the ground, and Erik stood in the forest. Those men had deserved to die, and they had. But Erik still didn't feel any better.

He turned and looked up at his collapsing, fire-consumed home. Somewhere in that disintegrating structure, his daughter's face was being consumed and ground to ash.

There really wasn't a point to living anymore.

A soft groan snapped Erik to attention. He noticed that Magda was stirring, pushing herself up from the ground.

"Magda?" Erik called, falling to his knees at her side. He wrapped his arms around her as she blinked up at him in confusion.

"Anya…?" She searched her husband's face and immediately found her answer. Her lower lip trembled, and she slowly shook her head.

Erik's expression fell into fierce despair as he clutched her closer to him. He rocked her as she sobbed, and he praised God that he was not left alone in his grief. Magda was the only person left on this godforsaken earth that he could feel anything towards.

Eventually, the fire had taken its fill of the Lehnsherr family home. Sparks flicked themselves down in the soil beside the couple, drawing Erik's attention back to the present.

"Magda, we have to leave," Erik said. He helped her sit up, and she looked around in desolation.

Until her eyes landed on the four corpses a few feet away. She stared at them until she could manage to look back at her husband. "Erik…"

"Don't look at them," Erik spouted harshly as he helped her to her feet. "They don't deserve recognition."

Magda slowly shook her head and dropped her hands from his. "You… you killed them…?"

Erik showed no remorse. "They let Anya die. I wish they had burned like she had."

Magda took a shaky step backwards, looking between the lifeless men and her emotionless husband. "You used your powers… to kill people."

Erik was impassive. "They deserved nothing less."

Magda stumbled backwards, and Erik stepped towards her. Immediately, she held up her hands in defense and jerked away from him. Erik remained still, but he was growing horrified of her reaction.

"You're not the man I know," she blurted in panic. She hurried backwards further. "You're not the man I've loved."

It took all Erik had to not reach out and pull her back towards him; she was all he had left in this world. "Magda, I did it for Anya."

Tears pooled in her eyes, and she staggered further back. "You're a monster! No man would perform an act like this out of _compassion_ for his child." With those final words spat, Magda turned and hurried through the woods.

"Magda!" Erik called, falling against the trunk of a tree. "Where are you going?!" Magda's brown hair was the last he saw of her as her icy words burrowed into his chest.

"MAGDA!"

* * *

 

_**February 1957, Alexandria, Virginia** _

Magda Lehnsherr (now US citizen Magda Maximoff) had faced nothing but months of despair. It had been hard to immigrate to the United States, a place that promised freedom when she felt constricted by her circumstances. It had been harder to find a place to live. It had been even harder to find enough food to eat.

Magda couldn't remember what it had felt like to be truly happy.

Until February 24, 1957. In Alexandria, Virginia at 2:42 a.m., Magda Maximoff gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

His cries flooded the delivery room, flooding his mother with relief and elation. The doctor brought her son to her with a smile, and she gratefully cradled the tiny human close to her chest.

She'd been debating names for months, wondering if she should name the new baby something to commemorate his deceased older sister. But upon looking into his brown eyes, she knew he deserved the name that she and Erik had wanted to name Anya if she had been a boy.

"Pietro," she cooed softly. The baby gurgled his acceptance, and closed his tiny eyes, making Magda smile.

Pietro was her son's name, even though she planned to call him Peter in the American public eye. It felt settled and right—until they handed her the birth certificate.

With a baby in the crook of her left arm, Magda's right hand clutched a pen above the important document. _Father's name?_ The pen swirled the air before scribing "Erik Lehnsherr."

 _Mother's name?_ She twirled the pen in thought. God, she didn't even know her own name. When she was very young, her parents had been killed in a concentration camp; she'd never really used a maiden name. So, Magda Lehnsherr or Magda Maximoff? She hesitated before deciding "Magda Maximoff" had given birth to this baby.

 _Child's name? Pietro…_ The pen stalled. Would he be a Maximoff or a Lehnsherr? His father was a Lehnsherr. But his father wasn't in the picture… She brought the pen back down and finished his name with a "Django Maximoff."

Pietro Django Maximoff blinked sleepily up at his mother as she handed the paper off to a nurse. Magda smiled down at her son, finally feeling something like she used to, back when she considered herself to be a real, live person.

With her son's birth, Magda had been revived.

* * *

 

_**April 1959, Alexandria, Virginia** _

Unfortunately, the world continued to crumble around the edges, even if Magda now had someone to share it with.

With a sigh, she set the faded newspaper onto the kitchen table. _MUTANT ATTACKS NEW YORK BAR_ , the headline screamed. And underneath it was a fuzzy, distant picture of a man that only Magda could identify—and it wasn't the first she'd seen of him in recent years. While Magda had immigrated the United States to make a better life for her son, Erik had come to the country to seek vengeance. The men in the forest had not been enough of a bloodbath for that man.

 _But he is seeking to destroy the Nazis…_ Magda's subconscious reminded her. She sighed and pushed the paper away. While some bystanders had been killed, it was obvious that the metal-manipulating mutant was targeting the World War II villains.

It was days like this that she wished she'd immigrated back to Poland instead.

"Maaaa!"

Magda's attention snapped up to her son. He was sitting on the carpet, clutching two small trains in his chubby fists. He looked to his mother and wailed again.

"Come on, Peter," she said as she lifted her child into her arms. "Are you hungry, my sweet boy?" She smiled as he wrapped his short arms around her neck. She lightly brushed her thin hand through his short, gray hair.

The hair had been shocking at first. She spent all of the money she had on multiple doctor visits to diagnose the silver color. And while the money may have been wasted, her fears had been calmed; her son was simply special (and very healthy).

Magda set her son in his highchair and fetched a premade peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As she tried to feed the boy, Peter turned his head away from the sandwich and frowned.

"Come on, Peter," she encouraged. "I know you're hungry…" And it was pretty much the last of their food.

Peter wailed and jerked his head away from the sandwich. "No!"

Magda slumped into a kitchen chair and dropped the pb and j. "No" was definitely Peter's favorite word lately, and he often refused to eat anything unless a Twinkie or Hostess cupcake was involved. She rubbed a hand over her forehead, hating herself for ever introducing her son to the apparently addictive Hostess desserts.

She needed to feed Peter, drop him off with the neighbor, and head to her nightshift. _And could her eternal headache just go away?_ With a huff and renewed determination to feed this sandwich to her son, she brushed a hand under her nose.

And her hand came away crimson.

* * *

 

_**March 1960, North Salem, New York** _

Magda's past year felt like a funnel. A funnel of increasingly shrinking options.

It had started with the nosebleeds and headaches: _ignore it or see a doctor?_ But it was just nosebleeds and headaches. Everybody gets those, and Magda didn't have the money to see a doctor.

Because she ignored it, the nosebleeds increased in frequency; the headaches got stronger. She didn't have a choice then: she had to see a professional. And then they had offered her a diagnosis: brain cancer. And then they had offered her a choice: _live with it (for as long as she could) or try to fight it with a radical new procedure called "chemotherapy"?_

But Magda didn't have the money for experimental drug treatments. So she decided that she could live with it; they didn't know how long she had to live, so maybe she could live a good long while without treatment.

But life is cruel, and hers was sadistic. A few months after her decision to exist with the nosebleeds and pain, she collapsed at work. She was wheeled to a hospital where they offered her a more accurate prognosis: less than a year to live.

She then was given the terrifying options: _find family to take in Peter or a couple to adopt him?_ Both fractured her soul. _She_ wanted to take care of her son. _She_ loved Pietro. But life didn't care what the hell she wanted; Peter was going to be an orphan in less than a year's time whether she liked it or not.

A nice, normal couple could raise her son. They could afford to offer him everything she never could. But Pietro Maximoff was not nice and normal; he had silver hair, and his father was a deranged mutant. There would always be the chance that Peter would be a mutant, and then the nice, normal couple would kick him to the streets.

Magda didn't have family; they'd been slaughtered in Poland. Erik didn't have family; they'd been slaughtered in Poland. Which left one possible candidate to raise young Peter…

Life was so damn cruel.

Magda tried to find Erik Lehnsherr, but he was elusive. The only way she could think to track him down was to follow the trail he was on: hunt down Nazis. While the vengeance could be satisfying, it seemed like an extensive risk, especially as she was frail with a three-year-old son.

And then the newspaper had shouted a saving grace: _MUTANTS: EXPLAINED_. The article had been written all about PhD geneticist Charles Xavier, who operated his studies out of his mansion in North Salem, New York. This Dr. Xavier mentioned having keen insight into mutants like no one had ever seen before.

It was barely a choice at that point: _get Dr. Xavier to help her find Erik or die trying._ Magda Maximoff then packed up everything she wanted to keep, sold the rest, and used every penny she had to travel with her son to North Salem, NY.

"Mama, what're we doing here?" three-year-old Peter asked. He looked up at the massive gates to the mansion.

Magda held her son higher on her hip, two duffel bags on her other arm. "We're going to meet someone, Peter." She looked around the extensive grounds, and the mansion that lay beyond the gates. The slightly ajar gates…

Magda slipped through the gates and struggled to march towards the grand, wooden doors. (Carrying two bags and a child did a toll on a decaying body.)

"Who're we meetin'?" Peter asked, playing with the ends of her brittle hair.

"Just wait and see, Pietro," she said breathily. She was really exhausted now. She brought her fist up to the door and knocked on the door thrice.

After a solid, tense minute of waiting (and practicing what she would say), the door finally opened. A man in his late twenties answered, squinting at her presence.

"Oh," she blurted as the man opened the door. "Dr. Charles Xavier?"

The man stared at her in confusion. "Yes."

"Oh," she said. "You are a lot younger than I pictured. Well, they didn't have a picture of you, so…"

Charles leaned around her to peer at the ajar gate. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Magda blinked in surprise and blushed. "Oh, yes. I mean, no! We, uh, we have not. But… I, er, read about you in the newspaper. And I was hoping that you could help me." Her eyes hinted to the desperation that swelled in her chest.

Charles threw a final look to the open gate before opening his door for her. "Please, come inside."

Magda hurried to oblige, and she followed Charles in to a sitting room.

"Please, take a seat, Miss…" he trailed off, realizing he hadn't caught her name.

Magda blushed again and held out the hand that wasn't clutching her child. "Oh, I am so sorry. I am Magda Maximoff. And this is Peter."

Charles shook her hand before smiling at the small boy. "Hello, Peter."

"Hi!" Peter cheerily greeted.

Magda looked down at him in fond exasperation. "I have been trying to teach him to be cautious of strangers, but he seems to love everyone immediately."

Charles smiled. "He's charming." He noticed the bags on her shoulder and helped her set them down before offering seats on one of the couches. "What can I do for you, Miss Maximoff?"

"Magda is fine," she assured him. "And I have been reading about the work you do. The, the mutation studies." Peter wriggled out of her hold and scurried over to a nearby, intricate vase.

"Peter, do not touch _anything_ ," Magda warned him fiercely. She'd be damned if she was kicked out of here before she could even explain why she came.

Peter frowned but didn't touch.

"Are you a researcher yourself?" Charles guessed.

She shook her head and came back to the conversation. "I… Well, Peter's father had… a mutation. And I was hoping that you could help me find him."

Charles's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I do study mutations, Miss Maximoff—"

"Magda."

"Magda," Charles corrected himself, "but I'm not sure that I'd be able to help you locate a man with one."

"I understand," she assured him. "I came here, not expecting a thing from you. But you are the only person in this world that could possibly help me."

Charles became bashful. "I'm not certain that that's true…"

Magda leaned forward. "Is there any place that people with these mutations congregate? I… I need someone who might be able to find Peter's father, Charles, and you are the only one who knows this population."

Charles looked pained. "Magda… I don't think I can—"

Crash!

Magda jerked her head up to see Peter staring guilty. His small shoes were surrounded in the ceramic shards of the once antique and expensive vase.

"Oh, God!" Magda hurried up and snatched her son out of the shards. She swatted his backside and gave him a firm, swift rebuke in Ukrainian. As Peter emitted quiet whimpers, a frazzled Magda turned back to Charles. "I am so sorry. This has been a mistake. I've wasted your time and…" She looked down at the broken vase in slight horror.

Charles stood and held up placating hands. "It's entirely alright. Please, don't worry about it. Sit. I want to be able to help you, Magda. Let me listen to the rest of your story."

Magda hesitated, but what choice did she have? She picked up Peter and sat on the couch again.

Charles sat and leaned towards Peter to stage whisper, "I didn't like that vase anyways." He winked, and Peter gave a small giggle.

Magda relaxed a bit. "Thank you. I… I just couldn't go anywhere else."

Charles gave a nod. "I feel there is more to your story. Please, if you're comfortable, enlighten me."

Magda hesitated and looked down at her content son. With a deep breath, she told her story. How she met Erik in the Auschwitz concentration camps. How they fled the camps together. How they fell in love and were married. Their daughter. Ukraine. Their daughter's murder. Erik's killing. Fleeing. Peter. The cancer. All of it.

After she was finished, Charles stared at her, stunned. "I am truly sorry, Miss Maximoff."

"Magda," she faintly corrected, brushing tears away.

Charles rubbed his jaw and stared at her and her son. "I have a confession. I, myself, am a mutant."

Magda blinked.

"I, I'm telepathic," Charles explained. "So I can read minds and send mental messages."

Magda touched her temple. "You can see—"

Charles held out his hands. "No, no. I don't invade others' minds without their permission. But I feel you should know. Especially since it may help us find where Erik has gone."

She stared at him in stunned disbelief, but not because he just admitted that he could read minds. "You'll… You will help me?"

"Well, I was already planning on taking a month off of my current PhD program." He gave her a soft smile. "I'd be more than happy to spend it helping you any way I can."

Tears flooded her eyes, and she was forced to close them. Tears escaped all the same. "Thank you."

"Now," Charles said, pulling a newspaper off the coffee table, "I believe I did read where your former husband was last spotted…"

* * *

 

_**April 1960, New Port, Rhode Island** _

The three had spent weeks together, hunting down Erik. Their efforts took them to northern New York, a small town in Connecticut, the slums of Pittsburgh, and, now, the tip of Rhode Island.

And Magda prayed to God that they would find Erik here.

"Perhaps, you ought to stay here while I go searching for him," Charles suggested kindly as he tied his tie.

Magda was sunken into the plush hotel bed, but she managed to vaguely shake her head. "No, I'm alright. I am… just a bit tired." A headache was consuming her mind, but she thought Charles couldn't tell.

"Mama, I'm hungry!" Peter yelled, bouncing onto the edge of her bed. Magda flinched at his sharp sound and movement, but the boy didn't notice.

"Peter, why don't we take a walk down to get some breakfast, hmm?" Charles suggested. He held out his hand to the boy, and Peter scrambled off the bed to claim it.

"Thank you," Magda wheezed, shutting her eyes. She would die with nothing but gratitude for that man.

Charles gave her a small smile as he led the boy out of the hotel room. "Get some rest." As Magda nodded, he quietly shut the door and let Peter drag him down into the hotel lobby.

"I want eggs, and I want, um, _toast,_ " Peter declared as he led Charles towards the hotel doors. "And, uh, maybe some, um, hot dogs…"

_**His hair!** _

Charles flinched at the thoughts. He really did try to never invade others' minds, but some people mentally screamed at him. Like when he walked with a three-year-old who had gray hair.

Charles gave the gawking woman a disapproving stare as Peter pulled him out of the hotel's entrance.

"…and maybe some cupcakes!"

Charles looked down at the enthusiastic youngster. "That's an awful lot of food, Peter. Are you sure you can eat all of it?"

Peter smiled brightly and nodded. The boy caught sight of a bakery down at the end of Cessation Boulevard, and he pulled his current caretaker towards it.

With an affectionate smile, Charles obliged. He really was growing fond of the boy; he would miss Peter when the time came to part ways.

_If Shaw imports the materials at this bay…_

Charles paused, entirely rigid, jolting Peter to an abrupt stop. Shaw? As in, Sebastian Shaw? Where had that thought drifted from?

Magda was nearly out of time; Charles let his moral compass turn a blind eye so he could follow that mental voice…

_He's been growing his ranks. If I do not intercept him at this pass…_

Charles focused on that mind and followed the thoughts, dragging Peter with him as he crossed the street.

"Mr. Charles!" Peter whined. "I wanna donut!"

A rundown apartment complex stood in front of him, and Charles hurried up the stairs to follow the voice.

" _Mr. Charles,_ " Peter pouted, weakly pulling on the adult's hand but ultimately following.

_I will end him here._

Charles stopped in front of apartment 4B. That voice, whoever was thinking of a Shaw, was behind this door. Should he knock? Barge in? His years of etiquette training hadn't trained him for this situation.

_I must head to the dock._

Just as Charles raised his fist to knock, the door was yanked open. Erik stared at him impassively, his bewildered thoughts the only indication that he'd been caught by surprise. At his stony stare, Peter leaned behind Charles's legs.

"Hello," Charles squeaked out after some time. He cleared his throat. "Might you be an Erik Lehnsherr?"

Erik still showed no outward sign of being surprised. His gaze drifted down to the boy clutching Charles's leg before settling on Charles himself. "No."

 _But your thoughts confirm otherwise,_ Charles told him telepathically.

Erik's eyes focused in on Charles then, throwing a quick glance to Peter. "What do you want?"

"It's rather a long story," Charles admitted and looked beyond Erik towards the apartment. "Might we come inside?"

Stiffly, Erik stepped aside to let them pass. Charles tugged Peter in behind him before claiming a seat at the kitchen table.

Erik didn't sit. He closed the door, walked towards them, and stood with his hands balled in his pockets. "I suggest you make this a quick story; I have somewhere to be."

Charles nodded. "Shaw. Yes, I know."

Erik's jaw tightened. "I prefer you keep your mind out of my head."

Charles adjusted Peter on his lap. "No, I'm sorry; you misunderstand. I have been tracking you for some time, and I know who you're after. I don't delve into others' minds if I can help it."

Erik's stare was relentless.

"I…" Charles looked down at the silver-haired child and faltered. How was he supposed to bear this news? He looked back up at Erik. "I am Dr. Charles Xavier."

Erik remained impassive. Besides, this telepath already knew his name.

Charles withheld a sigh. This really wasn't his place. He stood and held the boy in his arms. "Perhaps, I can persuade you to come back to my hotel, just for a bit? There's someone that wishes to speak with you."

Erik's eyes narrowed slightly. "I have prior engagements."

Right, yes. Charles ground his teeth. "Please, I promise it to be brief and worth your while."

Erik still was not persuaded. "It was good to meet you, Doctor." He led the two back to the door.

"Please, Erik," Charles pled as the door was opened. "It's Magda."

Erik froze, his hand stilled on the half-opened door. He slowly turned his gaze on Charles. "Who sent you?"

Charles shook his head. "You misunderstand; _Magda_ is here. She asked me to help her find you."

Erik stared long and hard at the telepath. If this was true, Erik would stop at nothing to reunite with his wife. And if this was a joke… Well, he'd had plenty of recent experience in using his powers to kill.

Erik stretched his hand ahead, indicating for Charles to take lead. Charles gratefully hurried to do just that.

As the trio made their way down the stairs and back to the main street, Peter tugged on Charles's sleeve. "Mr. Charles, who's that?"

"A friend," Charles told him. He figured that he should not be the one who breaks the news to the boy.

As they walked, Erik's eyes landed on the small, curious boy. His mind ran rampant with possible reasons for the boy's presence. He could be Charles's son, Charles's nephew, Charles's charge… He could be Magda's new son… He could be Charles's and Magda's new son… A distant gate creaked at that thought.

"She's in the hotel room," Charles told him as he led the way into a hotel lobby.

Erik wanted to know why they were sharing a hotel room. But Erik wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Mr. Charles, I didn't ever get a donut," Peter pouted.

"We'll get you one in a bit," Charles vowed absentmindedly. He continued on as the boy slumped unhappily in his arms.

When they reached a certain door, Charles knocked softly and called, "Magda? Are we alright to come in?"

"Yes," she called back faintly. Erik's heart raced at her voice. _Magda._ _His Magda._ She was _here_.

Charles pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it in.

Erik stepped in, eyes searching for her, and then he saw her, and then he _saw_ her—her tired eyes, her brittle hair, her hollow cheeks. He hadn't seen her look so poorly since Auschwitz. His heart constricted and sank into his belly.

"Erik," she breathed weakly. Her eyes brightened, and she pushed herself up to sit.

Erik stepped forwards, still stiff from disbelief.

"You're here," she said. Something in her expression calmed; she'd made her peace with something, now that he was here.

"Magda," was all Erik managed to whisper. He dropped to his knees at her bedside, and he enveloped her small hands with his own.

"I have been searching for you," she told him in Polish. "For months."

"I'm here," he assured her in their native tongue.

She closed her eyes in relief, and Erik's worry blossomed. When she opened her eyes again, she admitted bluntly, "I'm dying, Erik."

Erik's eyes roamed over her, seeing the obviousness of that statement but not wanting to believe it.

"I have cancer," she said. "And I do not have much time left."

Erik brought one of his hands to smooth her stiff hair. "No. I'm here. I, I will help you fight it."

The corner of Magda's mouth turn upwards. Erik may have been a monster in her eyes, but she still loved the man she had married—and that man felt he could control the world. "Not this time, Erik."

Erik's eyes locked onto hers. He noticed her eyes were full of acceptance. He noticed that her nostril was dripping blood.

"I needed to find you," she said, "so I could say goodbye. And that… I, I am so sorry." Her eyes washed over with tears.

Erik pushed her leaking tears away with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry about what I said," she admitted. "You scared me, Erik, but I regret every day that I had not stayed by your side."

He shook his head. "It's alright now."

She shook her head then. "I can't take it back now, and I suppose that this is my penance. But I am full of regret. And I am sorry that I did not let you have him."

Erik's eyebrows furrowed, not following.

Magda's eyes drifted to the boy sitting on the carpeted floor. As Erik followed her gaze, she explained, "He's yours, Erik. I meant to tell you the night of the fire. And I'm sorry that I never did."

Erik turned back to her in shock. He had… a son? He was a father?

"I hope I'm not too late," she pleaded. "He's yours now, Erik." More tears rolled down her cheeks.

Erik stared between his wife and his son. He couldn't believe that he was actually awake, that this was actually his reality. His wife was back. His wife was dying. He had a _child_.

Magda's nose began streaming blood, and she sat up to pinch it with her handkerchief.

"Perhaps, we should go back to my estate," Charles suggested with a worried look at Magda. He mentally added to Erik, _She'll be more comfortable there._

Erik helped Magda get to her feet as Charles collected their belongings.

"Are we gonna get donuts?" Peter asked when he noticed everyone standing.

"How about an apple for now?" Charles suggested, extending a red apple to the boy. "And donuts later?"

Peter frowned at it. It was _not_ a donut. But he was really hungry… He grudgingly accepted the apple and took a small bite.

Erik watched the exchange before staring at Charles. "And who are you to him?"

Charles offered a thin smile. "Just a man that desired to help a family reunite."

"Charles has helped us so much, Erik," Magda said through her reddening handkerchief. "He's paid for everything, and he's helped me so much with Pietro."

Pietro. Erik turned back to his son. _His son._ His son's name was Pietro.

"We can catch the noon train if we hurry," Charles said with a look to his watch. He hefted the bags onto his shoulders as Erik helped support Magda.

"Come on, sweet boy," Magda said, extending her hand towards Peter. Peter pushed himself off the floor and used one hand to hold his mother and the other to clutch his apple.

"We should arrive back at the mansion in time for supper," Charles informed them as he led the way down to the lobby. He glanced back at Erik. "Is there anything you need from your apartment?"

Still dazed, Erik shook his head.

Charles continued on, leading the way out onto the sidewalk. Peter pulled away from his mother to be picked up by the telepath. Even with the bags, the boy was easily held.

"How long did the doctors give you?" Erik asked her as they stepped into the fresh air.

Magda brought her bloodied handkerchief down; her nosebleed had stopped for now. "Not long, Erik."

Erik's grip on his wife tightened.

She leaned into him and sighed wearily. "I'm sorry for keeping him from you, Erik. I wish our lives hadn't become this."

Erik hushed her as they continued to follow Charles and Peter. "It's not too late. You're here. He's…" Erik looked up at his silver-haired son in wonder. "…here." Still in Charles's arms, the boy pointed excitedly to a butcher shop window and launched into an excited story with large hand gestures.

He was everything that he didn't know he'd been missing.

"I hate that I have to leave him," Magda said softly. "He's extraordinary, Erik. Please, don't tarnish him."

Erik looked down at her.

Magda glanced up before looking to the road. "You were a good man for Anya. Be that man for him."

Before Erik could respond to that, the four rounded a corner, and a pier stretched open in front of them. And getting onto a dock was none other than Sebastian Shaw.

"Stay here," Erik ordered darkly. He helped lean Magda against a brick building.

"Erik, no," she pled, weakly clutching his arm. "Not here."

"Mama?" Peter scrambled out of Charles's arms and over to his mother. He watched in confusion as the tall "friend" abruptly turned and marched towards the docks.

"Erik, don't!" Charles called, dropping the bags and chasing after him.

"Sh, it's alright, sweet boy," Magda told her worried son. She held one of his hands and then pointed to his other. "Eat your apple."

Peter looked down at his apple and frowned.

"Let go of me!"

The mother and son looked up to see Charles using his telepathic powers to wrestle Erik away from the docks.

Shaw, having heard the shouts, looked up and smirked in recognition. Slowly, he strutted towards the mutants, a blonde woman at his side. "Erik Lehnsherr. My, how you've grown."

As Erik pulled against Charles's mental grip, a metal rowboat crumpled in on itself.

Shaw looked over at it in vague interest. "And your powers are as magnificent as ever." He glanced at his watch. "Unfortunately, I don't have time for a show today." With a wave of his hand, he turned and headed back for his boat. The woman turned, right on his tail.

"NO!" Erik jerked himself out of Charles's mental hold and used his powers to levitate two guns from his belt. They aimed and fired at Shaw, but the woman turned herself to diamond and covered him in time. Instead, the bullets ricocheted and Shaw stepped into his ship unharmed.

In a fit of anger, Erik fired the guns again and again, even as they bounced harmlessly off of Emma Frost's exterior. They ricocheted around, burrowing themselves into nearby boats, hitting the dock, the water, back at them—

And straight into Magda Maximoff's chest.

The choked sound that she made was the only sound that could have stopped Erik like it did. He froze, the guns dropped into the ocean, and then he whirled around. His Magda was falling to the concrete pavement with a gushing wound in her chest.

"Mama?" Peter asked, completely panicked. He'd seen her sick, but he'd never seen her _collapse_.

Dumbly, Erik faltered towards his dying wife. He reached her just as her head hit the pavement, just as Charles tried to coax the boy away from his mother.

"No!" Peter shouted, fighting against Charles's hold. He latched onto Magda's sleeve and gripped it with everything he had. "Mama!"

Erik was on his knees at her side. He'd done this. He'd been back in her life for all of fifteen minutes, and she was already dying— _because of him_.

Magda stared up at Erik as blood bubbled from her lips. Her bloodied handkerchief was still trapped in her fist as she reached up to touch her husband's cheek. "Please… take care… of our boy. Take care… of our son."

Erik held his hand over hers and stared. A tear rolled out of his frozen eyes. "I'm so sorry, Magda."

Her head shook, just barely. "Be… be the man…" She struggled to get her words out as more blood dribbled from her mouth. "Be _good_ … for him."

Erik remained frozen as Magda's chest heaved and heaved and then stilled. Light faded from her eyes, and her hand drooped in Erik's grip.

"No," he whispered, not wanting to believe that he had watched another family member die in front of him. Die _because of him_. "No, Magda. Come back. Come back to me." Tears flowed freely as he clutched her close to his chest. "Don't leave me again!" He closed his eyes in despair as he rocked her to his chest.

"Mama!" Peter cried, still holding her limp arm. Charles held the boy back, but Peter wouldn't let go of her.

"Magda," Erik sobbed in despair. It was always the ones he loved and never the ones who deserved it.

Life was so damn cruel.

Distantly, sirens sounded. Erik didn't give a damn. The earth could swallow them all, and he'd been be perfectly content to sit it through.

"Erik, you need to run," Charles encouraged. He shook Erik's arm to get his attention. "The police will be here any minute. They'll recognize you, Erik. You can't be arrested."

Erik opened his red-rimmed eyes but didn't let his love's corpse go.

" _He needs you now, Erik,_ " Charles insisted.

That brought Erik out of his stupor. Slowly, he let Magda lie on the pavement as he looked to his panicked son. Peter had never stopped crying for his mother.

Charles stuffed a business card and a wad of bills into Erik's hand. "Go, get on the train, and go to the mansion. I'll be there when I can."

Erik looked down at the paper and then at Magda's motionless body.

"Go!" Charles urged.

Erik blinked and then looked at Peter. His son was wailing, pleading for his mom. Quickly and robotically, Erik pried Peter's fingers from her sleeve and lifted the boy into his arms.

"NO!" Peter shrieked, jerking wildly away from Erik. "MAMA!" Erik's grip on his son was iron; he wasn't going to lose the last piece of family he had left on this earth. With only his son's wellbeing in mind, Erik made himself walk away from Magda and towards the train station.

" _MAMA!_ _**MAMA!**_ " Peter screamed. He reached over Erik's shoulder for the bloody woman sprawled at Charles's feet. His small hands extended in desperation, and he dropped his red apple. It smacked the pavement and rolled away, landing at Magda's lifeless feet.

 _I'm going to let him sleep_ , Charles told Erik mentally. And just before the pair turned the corner, Charles pushed the boy's mind into a slumber. He wilted in Erik's arms, and Erik threw the doctor a grateful nod before turning the street corner.

Charles looked down at the woman he'd spent the past month with. A pool of Magda's blood had gathered under her. Charles sighed in despair.

The sirens screamed and turned onto Cessation Boulevard.

* * *

 

_**Later in North Salem, New York** _

Erik had taken a train to New Haven. He had then taken a train to Norwalk. He had then taken a taxi to North Salem, where he was dropped off in front of an enormous estate—all while holding a sleeping, traumatized toddler.

No one had commented on his blood smeared clothes, but that was most likely due to Peter covering them. Besides, one look from Erik sent any on-lookers turning in the other direction.

Erik looked up at the metal gates and easily manipulated them to creak open. He glanced down at his sleeping son. While he was grateful that the boy was in an unconscious reprieve, this five hour nap was beginning to worry Erik.

He continued up the paved path to the large wooden doors and manipulated the locks open. He stepped inside the large entryway and shut the door. He looked around, wondering where he was supposed to go.

With Magda ill, their room must have been close to Charles's. And Charles likely had the master suite. And the master suite… Erik went up the large staircase and turned right. After peeking in a few bedrooms, he found one that had a small child's outfit strewn across the bed.

Erik stepped inside and began searching the drawers for more children's clothing. He quickly found some, stashed away next to a few outfits for a woman. Erik slammed the drawer closed.

Erik saw an adjoined bathroom, but Magda had used this room. He simply couldn't stomach… He grabbed the boy's clothes and left the room. The one next door would do just fine.

The one next door, it turned out, was Charles's master suite. Figuring he was rich enough to buy more clothes, Erik yanked a shirt and dress pants out of the closet. He noticed a large bathroom inside of the suite, and he looked back down at Peter. Gently, he laid the boy down on the massive bed and grabbed his clothes.

As he made his way to the bathroom, his arms felt empty. They'd been carrying the three-year-old's weight for hours, and now they seemed limp and incomplete. Funny how things could change over the course of a day.

Erik had left the bathroom door cracked while he took a quick shower. He tried not to think of the blood or where it had come from; it simply ran off his body and swirled down the drain. It was when he was pulling on the borrowed (and a bit too small) clothes that he heard the whimper.

Erik stepped back into the bedroom to see Peter groggily sit up. Amidst the large, dark blue comforter, the silver-haired boy looked so small.

Peter stared at Erik with hurting, questioning eyes.

Erik stepped towards him slowly, his empty hands showing that the boy had nothing to fear. "It's alright, Pietro. I will never harm you."

Peter shrunk away from him all the same. "I want Mama." His tiny hands scrunched at the comforter.

Erik knelt down beside the bed. "I want that too, Pietro. But she can't be here now."

Peter frowned. "How come you know my real name?"

Erik's heart constricted as he said plainly, "Because I'm your father, Pietro."

The boy's frown deepened. "I don't have a father. Mama said I didn't."

"You do," Erik insisted once his voice returned. "I didn't know you were alive, but now I do. And I won't ever leave you, Pietro." He reached a gentle hand out and caressed Peter's knee.

Peter's eyes swelled with tears. "I want Mama."

Erik's chest burned, and he forced his lungs to inflate and deflate. Slowly, he stood back up and reached for Peter. "You need new clothes, son." _Son._ The word was new on his tongue.

"I want my mom," Peter whined as Erik lifted him into his arms and carried him to the bathroom. Erik gently placed his son on the counter and reached to wet a washcloth.

"Where's my mom?" Peter pleaded.

Erik remained stoic as he dragged the wet cloth down the boy's skin. He, again, forced himself not to think of where the blood had grown and why it was there. This was just washing his child up after a long day, the way he had done many times with Anya.

Peter was full-on crying at this point, wailing for his mother. Erik continued bathing him, letting his own tears fall.

"These clothes are dirty, Pietro," Erik coaxed over Peter's cries. He pulled the pants off of his son, but the shirt was a bit more of a struggle.

"No!" Peter cried, writhing against Erik's assistance. The shirt bunched at Peter's neck and tangled his short arms. "I want my _mom!_ _Mama!_ _MAMA!_ "

Erik gripped the shirt and tore it in half. It split down the center, and he was easily able to manipulate it off the boy; its bloodstains would've never come out anyways.

Peter wilted against the counter and mirror, and his cries became wordless.

Erik was able wrangle a soft pair of pajama bottoms onto Peter, but that was when he figured they'd both had enough. Erik picked up the shirtless child and carried him back into the bedroom.

"I want my mooooom," Peter wept softly, his arms wrapped around his father's neck.

Erik frowned and held his son close to his chest. He slowly laid them down on the still-made bed, and neither let go of one another.

"Mama," the three-year-old continued to cry.

"Pietro," Erik exhaled softly. How was he to tell a toddler that his mother was dead? "Your mother… she isn't coming back."

"No!" Peter shrieked, trying push himself up and off of Erik's chest. "I want _her!_ "

Erik sat up and gripped the boy's small, bare arms. "I loved her, too, Pietro. I miss her desperately and would give anything to bring her back."

Peter's face scrunched as he sobbed.

"But I am not alone, Pietro," Erik told him urgently. His stare bore into his son as he gave him a little shake. " _You are not alone._ I am your father, and I will always look after you. Always."

It wasn't the same. It would never be the same. But Peter understood that he wasn't abandoned. He understood, on some level, that he still had someone.

Peter tiredly sagged against Erik. Slightly surprised, Erik wrapped his arms back around his son and lowered them to the mattress. He held him as the boy sobbed, as the boy cried, as the boy whimpered, and as the boy quieted into an exhausted sleep.

Erik followed him soon after.

* * *

 

_**April 1960, North Salem, New York** _

The past week had been understandably solemn. From the time that Charles came home to find father and son asleep (in his bed) with tear-stained faces, the mood of the mansion was stagnantly somber.

The mood only plummeted when Magda's body was delivered from a coroner's office. Her funeral had been a small affair. The only outsider invited had been a rabbi who simply recited burial prayers and Psalm 91; Magda had no one else. The three men had dressed in dark suits, torn strips of black ribbon pinned to Erik's and Peter's clothes. They had stood at the edge of the Xavier mansion as Magda's simple pine coffin was lowered into the ground under a large oak tree.

It hadn't been discussed that she would be buried there; it hadn't been discussed that Erik and Peter would remain there. Charles had offered both in passing, and Erik had simply, gratefully nodded.

And Peter, the rambunctious and overly friendly three-year-old, was rarely excitable these days. It was a challenge to put him to sleep, making him grumpy throughout the day. And eating (one of his favorite pastimes) was now a testing chore.

"Pietro, you need to eat your dinner," Erik said flatly. He sat beside the boy, each with a plate of chicken and mashed potatoes. Peter, still in his black dress suit, left his food untouched.

"I don't wanna," Peter grumbled with a scowl to his plate.

"You will get sick if you do not eat," his father insisted. He leveled his stare on his son.

Peter glared at the table and kicked his feet against his chair.

Erik's patience felt tried. How was he to convince a child to _eat?_ How had he ever handled Anya?

 _By Magda's side,_ a voice in the recess of his mind reminded him. Erik scowled at his plate.

"Peter, I still have a spare box of Twinkies," Charles said from across the table. "You might persuade your father to let you have one _if_ you finish your supper."

Peter thought about it for a moment before grudgingly picking up his fork and taking a bite.

Erik leaned an elbow against the table and continued eating his own food.

"He… he's been a great fan of the Hostess company in the time I've known him," Charles explained to Erik.

Erik nodded but didn't turn his focus away from his plate.

That night, after Peter had been fed his Twinkie, bathed, and put to bed, Erik sat in Charles's study. From a large, red chair, he faced the moonlit grounds and reflected on the inappropriateness of this whole situation.

 _I shouldn't be here_ , Erik thought. _I shouldn't be a father; I failed the first time around. Magda should be here._

"Care for a drink?"

Erik didn't turn as Charles strode into the room with his hands in his pockets.

"I may not be delving into your mind, but your thoughts are rather apparent," Charles said. He poured a large bottle of Brandy into two tumblers.

Erik accepted the glass and took a healthy swig. "I shouldn't be in that boy's life."

Charles leaned against the windowsill to look at the metal-bender. "But you are."

Erik looked to his Brandy. "He deserves better."

"He _deserves_ his father."

"What kind of father can't get his own son to _eat?_ " Erik snapped, glaring up at the telepath.

"You've only known him for a week, Erik," Charles reminded him softly. "Give it some time."

Erik swirled the dark alcohol around his glass. "Did Magda tell you we had a daughter?"

"She did."

Erik gave a curt nod. "And you know what happened."

Charles hesitated. "She explained the entirety of her story to convince me to help locate you."

Erik gulped down the rest of the Brandy and leaned back in his chair. "You can't imagine grief until you witness the horror of your child screaming as they're burned alive."

Charles offered mute sympathies because, honestly, what could he say to that?

"I can't have anything like that happen again." Erik dragged a hand down his weary face.

"And it won't," Charles said.

"I'm a danger to the boy," Erik muttered.

"He's in danger _without_ you," Charles insisted. "It's a dangerous world, especially for mutants like us."

"He isn't a mutant," Erik grumbled half-heartedly.

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Have you seen his hair, Erik? It's only a matter of time."

Erik didn't respond.

"He needs someone that he can count on to look after him," Charles pressed. "He needs his father."

Erik brought his eyes back to the moonlit grounds as Charles's insistence slowly sunk in.

"It'll take time," Charles said as he rose from the sill. He laid a hand on Erik's shoulder and urged, "Give it time." With a comforting squeeze, Charles walked out of the study.

Once the door was shut, Erik sighed and rubbed his eyes. There really wasn't a choice anyways; he couldn't stomach the idea of leaving his son behind.

Besides, he'd made Magda a promise—he intended to fulfill it until his dying breath.

 


	2. Act 1: The Unbecoming

**Thank you so much for all of your incredible responses--you all have absolutely blown me out of the water.**

**(Please use your imaginations and pretend that dissimilar metals can happily meld together.)**

 

**ACT 1: The Unbecoming**

 

_**February 1961, North Salem, New York** _

It was two weeks before Peter's fourth birthday when they realized something was… off.

"AndIlovehowbigthetreesareherebecausethey'rejustsobig!"

Erik looked down at his son as they walked around the snowy Xavier grounds. Lately, Peter had been cramming all of his words into a single breath. Understanding him required extra concentration. "Pietro, you must speak slower if you want anyone to understand what you are saying."

Peter rolled his eyes. Charles and Erik had been saying that to him a lot lately. It wasn't his fault that everyone else was just _so slow._

But Peter was also easily distracted. "Ooh! Look! Look,thesunisgoingdown! It'ssopretty!" He jumped up and down and pointed at the sunset's orange and pink rays.

Erik resolved himself to his son's crammed speech; there were worse difficulties in this world. "That means it's time for us to head in." Erik took the boy's small hand and started to lead them back to the mansion.

Peter pulled ahead but let his arm be tethered behind him to his father. "Canwewatchamovie?"

"You need a bath," Erik said, eyeing the snow and mud clinging to the child. He'd taken Peter outside on account of it being an uncharacteristically warmer day, but the melting snow had created (all-too-irresistible-to-play-in) mud puddles. "And then we ought to practice your Polish."

Peter's pull on his father's hand slackened, and his walk slowed. Baths and homework wasn't nearly as fun as TV.

Erik's resolve melted at the sight. In Polish, he said, "But, perhaps, we can watch a movie after your bath tonight instead."

Peter's enthusiasm launched back in, full-force. He whooped and hopped around like a jumping bean, excitedly pulling his father towards the mansion.

Erik grinned. He wasn't _really_ giving in; they'd just practiced Polish right now.

 

* * *

 

It was a few days before Peter's fourth birthday when Erik began to worry.

"I'm still hungry," Peter grumbled as he sat on the bathroom counter, swinging his feet. His speech became comprehensible when he was tired.

Erik was drawing the youngster a bath. "Pietro, you cannot have another slice of cake." His son had had a full plate of fish, rice, and vegetables—the size of it had rivaled Erik's serving, _and_ Peter had followed his up with a slice of chocolate cake. There was no way the boy was still hungry.

Peter kicked his heels against the wood cabinet. "I didn't say nothin' 'bout _cake_." (Even though he wouldn't mind another slice.)

"We've talked about double negatives, son," Erik scolded lightly as he turned off the tap. He walked over towards Peter and leaned against the sink. "Did you know your birthday is in a few days?"

Peter gave a nod. "Imma be ten."

Erik frowned and crossed his arms. "Try _four_."

Peter's eyes lit up in delight. "Four!"

The tip of Erik's mouth tilted upwards. _Yes, I suppose four sounds old to a three-year-old_ , he thought. "Do you know your birthdate?"

Peter danced his fingers along the marble of the sink counter. "Uh, ten!"

"No, it's—" Erik paused as he considered. Was it the twenty-third or the twenty-fourth? He'd have to consult his son's birth certificate again.

"Anyways, it's time for your bath," Erik moved on and helped the boy wriggle off his loose jeans. He lifted the hem of Peter's baggy t-shirt. "Charles and I were thinking—"

 _Ribs._ Erik's hands froze just as the t-shirt reached the boy's neck. His eyes were glued to his son's torso. Peter was so… frail. Erik could count each, individual rib on the boy, front and back. His sternum was visible, and his abdomen was noticeably sunken. Peter looked…

_Starved._

"'m stuck!" Peter whined, his arms squirming out of the shirt around his head.

Erik snapped out of his alarmed stupor to help pull the shirt over his son's head. As he did so, he couldn't help but note how bony Peter's arms were. In fact, his legs seemed scrawnier as well. And had his spine always protruded like that?

"Pietro, have you been feeling alright?" Erik asked as he helped his son stand and wriggle out of his underwear.

"Yeah," Peter answered absentmindedly, looking around the bathtub. "Where's my duck?"

Erik helped his son step into the bath before reaching and handing him the rubber duck in the corner of the room. He watched his son carefully as Peter bounced his duck up and down on the water.

Peter shouldn't be this skinny. Erik hadn't seen anyone, let alone a child, this skinny since his time in—

The shower curtain rod rattled overhead.

Peter looked up at it curiously. "Papa, are you doing that?"

Erik cleared his throat, and the rattling stopped. "Pietro, have you been feeling hungry for a while?" Erik mentally recounted every meal that Peter had eaten recently. His mind retraced every time the boy had complained of being hungry, and he thought of every medical explanation for this sudden malnourishment.

And Erik had the overwhelming feeling that he was a shit father.

Peter shrugged. "I dunno." He bobbed the rubber duck.

"And you're hungry now?" Erik checked. And he'd told the boy to stop whining about cake.

Peter nodded.

A really shit father.

"Once we finish with your bath, why don't we sneak down for a midnight snack?" Erik suggested.

Peter brightened at the idea.

And once bath time was over and the boy was clad in his favorite (and somehow baggy) dog pajamas, Erik walked his son back down to the kitchen and helped him to whatever he wanted to eat.

And Peter wanted a ham sandwich, a piece of Colby Jack cheese, a glass of milk, and slice of chocolate cake.

By the time Peter was put into bed, he fell asleep easily, sporting a smile of contentment.

A really, really shit father.

"I'm convinced he has a tape worm or something of that nature, Charles," Erik rambled as he bit his thumbnail and paced around the study.

"Where on earth would Peter have acquired a tape worm?" Charles calmly refuted. He crossed his hands and leaned back in his red armchair.

Erik shook his head. "Oh, how would I know? That child is always one step ahead of me."

Charles was amused. "He's four."

"He's _three_ ," Erik corrected because, technically, his son still had a few days left of being three. "Speaking of which, I need to see his birth certificate."

Charles rolled his eyes, reached into his desk drawer, and pulled out the official document.

Erik bent over it, looked it over ( _yes, the birthday was February twenty-fourth_ ), and then did a double-take. He jammed a finger into the paper. " _Maximoff?_ "

Charles gave him a curious look.

Erik pointed to the document look. "My son doesn't have my last name!"

Oh. That. Charles leaned back into his chair. "To be fair, you weren't exactly there to sign the certificate."

Erik scowled down at the legal document. How had he missed this before? Granted, he had only seen it once before, just after Magda's death, but it was a stark detail.

"You can always change it," Charles assured him languidly. "It does list you as his father."

"Damn right, I'll change it," Erik grumbled under his breath, tucking the paper into his jacket's inside pocket. His son was Pietro _Lehnsherr_ , not whatever the hell a Maximoff was.

"Perhaps, you ought to ask Peter's opinion," Charles casually suggested. "He's old enough now to have his own thoughts on the matter. After all, his mother legally was a Maximoff."

Erik's polite smile was tight. "Charles, can you help me deduce what is plaguing my son or not?"

Charles gave him an eyebrow raise and pushed himself off of his chair. "A paranoid father for one." He went to a bookshelf consuming one of the walls and pulled a large volume off. "But I feel confident in saying that the boy is not housing a tape worm."

Erik caught the book as Charles tossed it to him. He flipped it over to see it was the 1858 medical classic _Gray's Anatomy_. Erik looked back up at the telepath, unamused. "This text is over one hundred years old."

Charles's smile was amused as he leaned against his desk. "I figured you'd want some light reading to ease your worry."

Erik's jaw clenched, but Charles noticed that he didn't put the book down.

"Erik, I will investigate your son's health first thing in the morning," Charles vowed, becoming serious. "You know he's my first priority. But there is no sense in worrying about it tonight."

Erik's nod was crisp. "Thank you, Charles."

Charles gave a small smile and nodded towards the door. "Get some sleep. We'll worry about it tomorrow."

Erik accepted that and strode out of the study, still clutching _Gray's Anatomy_ under one arm as he left.

 

* * *

 

At the breakfast table, Charles couldn't help but study the two men joining him. Peter, like every morning, was groggy and sleepily reaching for pancake after pancake. (And he did look a bit skinnier to Charles.)

And with bags under his eyes and disheveled hair, Erik looked like he'd spent all night reading the entire _Gray's Anatomy_.

"Jesus Christ," Charles muttered under his breath at the sight of his friend.

"What?" Peter asked as he stuffed a pancake into his small mouth.

"Nothing, Peter," Charles assured him and took a bite of his own pancake. He didn't miss Erik's subtle scowl directed towards him. After he'd swallowed the bite, he suggested, "Peter, what do you say we play a game today?"

Peter perked up at that. "What kinda game?"

"Hmm… How about Simon Says?" Charles said with a grin.

Peter became excited. "OK! Howdoweplay?!"

Charles chuckled. "I'll explain after breakfast; we can't play until after we're all finished eating."

Peter nodded and hurried into his food, his fork going from his plate to his mouth and back again faster than the adults thought possible.

"There won't be any playing if you choke on your food, Pietro," Erik said and took a drink of his morning coffee. "Slow down."

Reluctantly, Peter made a conscious effort to eat slower.

 

* * *

 

"Simon says to open your mouth," Charles instructed once the game had been explained.

Sitting up on the desk in Charles's study, Peter immediately complied. He loved games.

Charles stepped forward with a flashlight and pressed Peter's tongue down with a tongue depressor. Using the light, he looked into Peter's mouth.

"A'e 'e 'layin' 'oc'or?" Peter asked with the stick still in his mouth.

Behind Charles, Erik pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, although I don't typically have to _play_ doctor since I am one," Charles explained with a grin as he took the tongue depressor out.

Peter looked at him quizzically. "You're a doctor?"

"A specific type of one, yes," he confirmed. He threw a pointed look over his shoulder and added, "Although, I am still not a certified medical doctor."

Erik stepped forwards with a thin smile. "But we're grateful for your medical expertise, all the same, _Doctor_."

Charles ignored that and pointed a small flashlight into Peter's eyes. "Doctor Simon says look at me."

Peter obeyed instantly.

"Good to know that I'll have his immediate obedience if I add a 'Simon says,'" Erik commented with an eye roll. This fun fact could have been useful ages ago.

Charles lowered the light and picked up a thermometer. "Simon says to hold this under your tongue." Peter instantly complied. As Charles held the thermometer in place, he picked up a rubber hammer. He tapped each of Peter's knees, and each instinctively kicked in response. He took out the stable thermometer; it was perfectly normal.

Charles stepped back and stared at the boy in deep thought.

"Well?" Erik prompted after a silent moment.

Charles threw up a hand. "I can't find anything apparently wrong with him, Erik."

Erik rolled his eyes and walked up to Peter to help him out of his t-shirt. When Peter resisted (he was in the middle of a game!), Erik said, "Simon says to take off your shirt."

Peter narrowed his eyes and looked between the two men. He wasn't sure if that was allowed, but he reluctantly allowed his father to peel the shirt off.

Charles frowned as Peter's scrawny frame was put on full display. He (as Simon) instructed Peter to sit straight in order to examine his too-skinny torso. Charles's frown deepened.

After fetching a stethoscope, Charles listened to his heart. He then instructed Peter to take deep breaths so he could listen to Peter's respiratory system.

"Simon didn't say!" the boy declared in victory.

With the stethoscope posed over Peter's chest, Charles smiled. "Good catch. Simon now says to take a deep breath in."

Peter did.

"Simon says to let it out."

And Peter did.

Charles pulled away and wrapped up his stethoscope.

"Charles?" Erik prompted.

"You're right about his appearance," Charles replied. "It's obvious. And his heartrate is rather fast. But the rest of him seems perfectly normal—astoundingly healthy, even."

Erik rubbed his forehead. "What does this all mean?" He'd be damned if he lost his only family member to _malnourishment_.

"Could it be related to a mutation?" Charles wondered aloud.

Erik was stone-faced. "I don't think starvation is a mutation, Charles."

Charles threw his friend an unamused look. "Well, I'm inconclusive at best. I need to study more on what's physically expected for Peter's age. After I learn more, I'll examine him again."

Erik's teeth ground together. "So he'll starve until then?"

"We _could_ take him to a proper physician, Erik," Charles suggested for the millionth time, knowing Erik still wouldn't take his son to a non-mutant doctor unless absolutely necessary. "Otherwise, we increase his food intake and frequency until I know more."

"Arewestillplaying?"

Erik turned to his son. "Pietro, we've discussed speaking too quickly. Slow your words down so we can understand you."

Consciously slower, Peter repeated his question.

"The game's over for now, son," Erik said as he hefted the boy into his arms. "Why don't we help ourselves to another lunch while Charles busies himself in research, hmm?"

Charles rolled his eyes.

"Canwehaveicecream?!"

As Erik carried his son out of the study, he rebuked speaking too quickly again.

"Ice cream? Pleeeeeeease?"

 

* * *

 

A few days later, it was Peter's fourth birthday. And Erik was stressed.

The increase in food intake had showed slight improvement in the boy's thin physique. Peter was up to six meals a day, and no longer complained of hunger. But his need for that much food was inexplicable at best.

And Peter _still_ did not have the Lehnsherr name.

And Erik floundered for a birthday gift. What do you get the son who never knew you existed? Erik had already missed the first three birthdays; he'd be damned if this one went uncelebrated.

So after second dinner, Erik and Peter sat at the kitchen table while Charles lit the candles on a birthday cake. Peter leaned towards it eagerly as the match lit the final fourth.

As the men sang _Happy Birthday_ , Peter inched closer and closer to the flaming sugar mound. Erik noticed Charles frown as the neared the end of the song, making Erik narrow his eyes at the telepath.

"… _toooooo yooooouuuuu!_ "

Peter lunged forwards and blew out the candles in a single breath. He remained hovering over the cake while he grinned.

"Alright, let's let Uncle Charles cut you a slice," Erik said as he pulled his son away from the cake. While Peter frowned, Charles gave him a slight smile and took the cake away to slice.

"Iwannabigpiece!"

Erik sighed as he held his squirming son. They'd been working on Peter's speed-talking for _weeks_ , and there was really no improvement. As Erik opened his mouth to rebuke the condensed words, the doorbell rang.

Charles handed Peter a large slice of cake and grinned. "That'll be Raven."

Peter's high excitement level shot up even higher. He leapt off of his father's lap, cake and all, and ran towards the door.

"Do not run and eat, Pietro!" Erik commanded. The boy moved rather quickly, all while shoveling the cake into his mouth. That child would be the death of Erik Lehnsherr.

From the other room, Erik heard his son open the front door and cheer "Raven!" around a mouthful of cake.

"Happy birthday, Peter!" she greeted enthusiastically. "I brought you a present!"

Erik thought of the present he had for his son, stashed upstairs and under his bed.

Peter led Raven into the kitchen area, balancing his half-eaten cake while unwrapping a paper-wrapped box.

"Since when do you feel the need to use the doorbell?" Charles teased as he wrapped his foster sister in a hug.

She smiled and hugged him back. "This isn't my house anymore, Charles."

"Yet you can't seem to keep away," Erik chimed in with a sly grin.

Raven turned around and playfully narrowed her eyes. "Erik. I see you're still mooching off my brother."

"And I see you're not taking full advantage of his monetary resources." Erik knew he was mooching, but Charles had insisted on it. If Peter wasn't in the picture, Erik supposed things would be different.

"I spent my whole life in this house," Raven reminded him. "And I'm enjoying my travels around the world."

"What is it?" Peter asked. He'd set his cake on the table to frown down at the box in his hands.

"They're called Legos," she explained, walking closer to him. "They're interlocking bricks that you can use to build things. They were popular in Denmark."

"Cool!" Peter gripped his box to his chest and _ran_ into the next room.

The three adults frowned at his super-speedy exit.

"He's gotten faster," Raven commented as the sounds of Peter dumping out dozens of plastic bricks drifted over.

"Very much so," Charles agreed thoughtfully.

Erik continued to frown.

"Well, if it's time for presents, I suppose I'll go fetch mine for Peter," Charles said and exited the room.

To the sound of plastic Legos hitting stone tile, Raven eyed Erik as he continued cutting the cake. She took in his high-quality cotton t-shirt and jeans—more expensive than the run-of-the-mill Levi's. She noticed his chestnut hair was shaggier than she'd last seen it. She noticed that his hands had formed new callouses—most likely from chopping wood during the winter months.

"Are you going to say something or spend the evening staring?"

Raven drifted her gaze up to his face as he impassively laid two slices of cake on plates. "It's been a while; I was noticing the fine craftsmanship of your shirt and jeans. Charles buy them?"

Erik handed her a plate of cake. "I thought we'd established that I'm a mooch."

She kept her expression as pokerfaced as his. "And I can't help but wonder what your motives are."

Erik blinked at her and then turned to his cake.

"What drew you to stay in the mansion?" she pressed. "What drives Charles to throw his money on you?"

"I'm trying to raise my son in a stable environment," Erik answered surely, "and Charles enjoys the company. Apparently, he became rather withdrawn once his only family left him to travel the world." His eyes narrowed as he took a bite of cake.

Raven dropped it after that comment.

"Peter, come into the kitchen, please!" Charles called, trotting into the room with a misshaped, brightly-wrapped mound in his hands. At the top of the wrapped figure, a bow was neatly tied.

At Erik and Raven's stares, Charles's cheeks heated. "I've never been good at wrapping."

"I remember Hanukah," Erik said, eating another bite of cake.

"I remember a decade of your presents," Raven reminded bluntly.

Charles rolled his eyes. "Yes, well—ah! Peter!"

Peter zipped up to Charles and eagerly bounced in front of him. With a chuckle, Charles handed the misshapen gift over for the boy to tear through.

"Neat!" Peter cheered as he exposed the presents on the floor. In the paper were two baseball mitts, a bat, and three baseballs. He sprang up and wrapped the gift-bearer in a hug. "Thanks, Uncle Charles!"

Raven cleared her throat pointedly.

Peter ran towards her and held her in an immediate hug. "Thanks for the Legos, Raven!"

She smiled and hugged him back. "Happy birthday, Petey."

Peter wrinkled his nose at the nickname and turned to his father. "Canwegoplaywiththebaseballstuffpleeeeeeease?!"

Erik simply raised an eyebrow.

Peter huffed and repeated himself at a slower speed.

Erik nodded. "We'd better head out before it gets dark."

Peter squealed in delight, grabbed a mitt, bat, and ball, and bolted to the backyard.

"That kid can really haul ass," Raven remarked, staring after him in wonder.

"Lucky me," Erik commented dryly. He picked up a mitt and followed after his son.

"Where is your jacket?" Erik rebuked once he'd stepped foot outside.

"Uh…" Peter's eyes darted around.

Erik rolled his eyes and let it slide; it was his son's birthday, after all. "Just throw the ball, Pietro."

With an excited grin, Peter launched the baseball—and made it fly about five feet.

Erik looked down at where it had landed, not even halfway between them. "It seems I need to teach you how to throw a ball." He marched towards his son and had him drop the bat and glove. He picked up the ball and taught his son where to place his fingers (which was difficult for a four-year-old's hand) and then how to toss it. They practiced a few times until Peter got the hang of it.

"Canweplaycatch?!"

Erik restrained a chastisement of speed-talking; it was Peter's birthday. "Of course."

Seeing that Raven and Charles had drifted outside to watch, Peter ran towards them and invited them to play.

"I think we'll watch, just this once," Charles said with an affectionate smile. He really didn't want to break up this father-and-son moment.

"OK!" Peter ran back towards his father and picked his mitt up from the melting snow.

Erik palmed the baseball and looked at the large mitt on the small boy. "Perhaps, we should start off without the mitt."

Peter looked down at it and then dropped it back to the ground.

Erik held the ball up and pointed out the proper placement of hands in order to catch the baseball without injury.

"You know, for being the only true American here, you two seem to be big baseball fans," Raven noted, pointing between Erik and Charles.

"I'm American!" Peter declared, holding up an eager hand.

Raven grinned at him and nodded in agreement.

"I'm a fan of all cultures," Charles said.

"I'm just knowledgeable," Erik said bluntly.

Charles and Raven rolled their eyes.

"Throw it, Dad!" Peter called, holding his hands like his father had instructed.

Using just enough strength to get the ball across the way, Erik threw it to his son.

Peter caught it in a fumble of hands and then held it up with a laugh. "I did it!"

Erik couldn't resist smiling. "Alright, now throw it back."

Thinking about the throwing techniques he'd just learned, Peter tossed it back with a grunt.

Erik leaned forwards to catch it. And the two went back and forth.

Eventually, Peter backed up and had his dad throw it to him farther. He'd struggle to catch it and then run forwards to toss it back a short distance.

"Throw it far, Dad!" Peter called, running away.

"How far?" Erik called back in amusement.

Still moving away, Peter threw out his hands. "So far!"

Erik raised an eyebrow. His son had asked for it. He curled the ball close in to his chest and wound up his muscles before letting the ball soar as far as he could possibly launch it.

Peter, who had his back turned and was still moving away, saw the ball suddenly appear in front of him and hurl away. In a burst of eager excitement, Peter took off, letting his legs move as fast as they would carry him.

And they. Could. Move.

The three adults' jaws dropped as Peter took off in a literal blur, seeming to disappear in thin air and then reappear fifty feet away.

Peter held the ball in his hands, having caught it midair. And then the boy frowned as the pain of catching a full-speed baseball with bare hands caught up to him. "AH!" He dropped the ball and held up his hands with a cry.

Coming out of his stupor, Erik stumbled forwards and made himself focus on the fact that his son was in pain. Because it didn't _really_ matter that Peter had just caught a blur of a ball, midair. And it didn't _really_ matter that his son could move at inhuman speeds…

Peter cried out again, holding his red hands in front of his tear-stained face.

"Sorry, Pietro," Erik said as he picked his crying son up into his arms. He examined his son's hands and found nothing to be seriously wrong with them. "I thought it would hit a tree and roll towards you..." Or anything other than what had happened.

Peter sniffed and hiccupped. "C-can I ha-ave so-ome i-ice?" He hiccupped again.

Erik kissed his silver mop of hair and promised, "Of course." He carried his quietly crying son back into the mansion, staring ahead in shock.

Raven and Charles still hadn't moved; they watched, dumbstruck, as the Lehnsherrs left the backyard. They looked to one another before following the men inside.

Once Erik had wrapped ice in a hand-towel and placed it on his son's hands, he knelt down in front of the boy. "Pietro… Have you ever done that before?"

Charles stared at the boy with worry and curiosity.

Peter looked up with confused, watery eyes. "C-caught the b-ball?"

"No, son," Erik pressed. "Did you know that you could move that quickly?"

Peter was confused. "I, I just r-ran after the, the ball."

Erik nodded, taking that as his answer. He kissed his son's forehead.

"Erik, a word?" Charles beckoned with a meaningful look. Erik looked to him and then to his son. Raven stepped forwards and reminded Peter of the Lego toys. She picking up the boy, keeping the ice wrapped around his hands, and carried him to the Legos scattered in the main entryway.

"It's a mutation," Erik stated the obvious once he and the telepath were alone.

"It would appear so," Charles agreed. "He can move incredibly quickly, and his reflexes are incomprehensible. His metabolism must have increased in order to support his movement."

Erik rubbed his face in relief. His son wasn't dying; he was simply… a mutant. He very nearly smiled at the thought.

"When I overheard his thoughts earlier, I thought he was simply overexcited from the sugar…" Charles mused.

Erik turned his stare on him. "His thoughts are quickened, too? And you didn't think to tell me?"

"It happened less than an hour ago, Erik," Charles defended with a pointed stare. "I planned to tell you tonight."

Erik ignored that. He didn't like the idea of others knowing more about his kin than he did.

"Don't you see what that means?" Charles pressed with barely contained glee. "Peter has remarkable abilities! His powers will only grow, and his thought-processes are already nauseatingly quick. In the future, he will be able to solve problems faster than you or I can comprehend them. He'll be able to outthink anything."

Erik looked to the doorway where the sound of Raven and Peter playing with Legos drifted in. He let the smile come to his lips. "He's extraordinary."

"And his physical speed!" Charles continued, standing close to Erik as they looked to the doorway. "He must've moved faster—"

"That might become an issue," Erik muttered with a frown.

Charles looked at him with confusion.

"A child that can think and move faster than his parents can look at him?" Erik looked to his friend and shook his head in muted horror.

Charles didn't let himself dwell on the plurality. He cleared his throat and looked fondly back to the doorway. "Peter is a considerate child. Surely, he wouldn't purposefully inflict too much grief."

Both men stood very still as the sound of Peter squealing and crushing Lego buildings echoed around the halls.

 

* * *

 

"It's time for bed," Erik repeated for the millionth time. He held a pair of airplane pajamas in his hands, but the birthday boy continued jumping around the bed in his underwear.

"I'm not tired!" Peter smiled gleefully as his floppy, silver hair bounced with his speedy movements.

Erik stared his son down. The boy really needed a haircut. And to have his last name legally changed. They'd have to go into town soon.

"Thisbedissobouncy!"

"Speed-talking, Pietro."

"Sorry!"

Erik huffed and threw the pajamas onto the bed. "I suppose you don't want your birthday present from me, then?"

The bouncing came to a screeching halt. Peter turned with wide eyes and instantly morphed into an obedient, angelic child, sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed. "A present?"

"If you want it, you'll have to put on your pajamas."

Peter snatched up the jammies and yanked them over his head, over his arms, over his ankles, over his legs. He stood in front of his father once they were pulled up, instantly at attention.

Erik withheld rolling his eyes and, instead, pointed to the bed. "Sit there. I'll go get it."

As Peter obeyed, Erik stalked out of the boy's room and across the hall to his own. He reached underneath his bed and pulled out a shiny, silver cardboard box.

Peter squirmed in his seat as Erik brought the present in front of him. In a flash, the boy had the lid off the box and was tearing through the tissue paper. He reached the present before Erik could even finish sitting down.

"A cape!" With a large smile, Peter pulled the clothing from the box. It was the perfect length for a four-year-old and tied at the neck. Erik had it specially made from one of Charles's good friends. The article was made of silver satin with a large, black satin "P" stitched in the middle. It was lined and tied in the front with more black silk.

"I recall a certain boy constantly complaining that he didn't have 'cool powers' like his father or Uncle Charles," Erik remarked with a smirk. "Although, I don't suppose that's necessarily true anymore."

Peter hopped up in front of his sitting dad, holding the cape out. As Erik smiled and started tying the shimmery cape around his son's neck, Peter asked, "Was I really fast?"

"Yes," he replied. "Your speed is a remarkable gift, son." He tied off the bow and released the cape.

"Can I do it again?!" With a delighted smile, Peter ran around the room at a quick, trackable speed. His cape billowed out behind him as he ran.

"Only if I or Uncle Charles are around," Erik cautioned.

Peter's smile enlarged just before he took off around the room in a streak of silver. In no time at all, he was stood in front of Erik, breathing heavily through a grin. "WOAH!"

Erik blinked. Perhaps encouraging the speed had been a bad idea.

"Youweresoslow!" Peter pointed at his father, still smiling. "I was running, and youdidn'tevenmoveatall!"

Rather than go into the physics of speed relativity, Erik simply nodded and offered a small grin.

Peter laughed and zipped around the room, faster than Erik could see.

After a full minute, Erik called for his son. Peter appeared in front of him, winded, tired, and elated.

"We can show Uncle Charles tomorrow, hmm?" Erik offered, picking his warm four-year-old up and laying him in the large bed.

Peter nodded enthusiastically. And as Erik's nimble fingers went to untie the cape, Peter held his dad's hands. "Can I wear it tonight? I'm a superhero now."

The cape had been intended to console his power-less son, but Erik supposed this would do. Reluctantly, Erik nodded. After all, it was still Peter's birthday.

Peter smiled, yawned, and closed his eyes.

"Would you like a story?" Erik offered, as he did every night.

"What d'you think Mama is doing?" Peter asked, keeping his eyes closed.

Erik's hands stilled, halfway through pulling up the bed covers. "She's… in the afterlife, Pietro."

"Do you think she's happy?"

Erik paused before answering, "Yes. Yes, I think she looks down on you and is very happy." He wasn't sure if he believed his words, but he would say anything to comfort his son.

Peter thought about that and then said, "She used to sing Happy Birthday to me when I was going to sleep on my birthday. She sang really pretty."

Erik didn't move as he considered that. He'd been so caught up in celebrating his first birthday with his son that he hadn't thought of it being Peter's first birthday without his mother.

"I want a story about robots!" Peter declared suddenly, blinking lazily up at Erik. "And I fight them with my new fast powers, and you and Uncle Charles and Raven are there and you help me with your powers, too!"

Erik grinned and laid down beside his son, tucking Peter into the crook of his arm, as he did every night. While the ritual had started to smother the boy's nightmares, it was now an easy, comforting routine.

"Once upon a time," he began in a soothing, deep voice, "there lived a brave, strong, _quick_ , silver-haired boy. His name was Pietro, and he was the fastest in all the land…"

By the time Erik wound his valiant tale down to a close, he looked down to see his cape-wearing superhero sound asleep and curled into his side. Erik smiled softly.

"Happy birthday to you…" he sang quietly to his son. "Happy birthday to you… Happy birthday, dear Pietro… Happy birthday to you…"

 

* * *

 

A couple of days after Peter's birthday, Raven said her goodbyes.

"Keep me updated on him," she'd told Charles with a subtle nod towards the four-year-old. Peter ignorantly played with his Legos on the floor of the study.

Charles smiled softly, his hands in his pockets. "If I had a number to call or an address to which I could write…"

She rolled her eyes, grabbed a scrap of paper, and scribbled down a PO Box address in the Bronx. She handed the paper to Charles with a meaningful look.

"We'll alert you of any changes," Erik assured her coolly. He stood over by the bookshelves, simply observing his son and glancing to the adults.

And once Raven had given her final waves, she took the summoned cab at the front gates for the airport, ready to explore Mexico City.

"Peter, would it be alright with you if I studied your abilities today?" Charles crouched down in front of the child as Peter carried on with his Legos.

"I guess," he said as he speedily stacked the blocks.

"Excellent. Would you allow me to enter your mind for a quick minute to observe your thought processing?"

Mildly interested now, Peter nodded and sat up in front of his pseudo uncle. As Erik stood aside and watched with a hard stare and crossed arms, Charles smiled at the boy and gently pressed his fingertips against his own temple.

_Is he listening to my thoughts yet if he can read thoughts he should do that all the time because that's so cool but then he would spy on people when they're naked and Dad wouldn't probably like that but Dad doesn't look like he really likes anything he looks really angry he always is not smiling but he loves me because he said so and he bought me ice cream at that park and gives me so many meals like before breakfast and breakfast and after and before lunch and lunch and after lunch and I'm so hungry I want that ice cream that we had—_

Charles jolted out of the boy's head and dropped his hand from his head. With a staggered breath, he struggled to regain his bearings.

Erik took a step forwards and worriedly prompted, "Charles?"

Charles marveled at the child as Peter looked on. Slowly, the telepath smiled. "Extraordinary. His mind moves so quickly that I feel positively nauseous."

Erik was beside them now, staring down between them in equal parts concern and wonder.

"Whatdoesnauseousmean?" Peter looked between the adults.

Erik picked his son up from the ground and stared at him. "It means you're incredibly smart, Pietro. You're so smart that Uncle Charles can't think as fast as you."

Peter grinned at that.

Still smiling, Charles playfully narrowed his eyes at his friend and pushed up from the ground. "Let's go outside where we can watch you run, Peter. And afterwards, we'll let you have that ice cream."

"YES!"

 

* * *

 

Charles had taken detailed notes of the boy for the past few days. He listened to Peter's mind, tested Peter's reflexes ("Remarkably fast! Erik, look at your son!"), noted how many calories Peter ate and at which points he became hungry, and scribbled furiously in a notebook upon studying Peter run.

The silver streak reappeared before the men with a bright smile. Panting slightly, he asked, "Howfastwasthat?!"

"Incomprehensibly fast!" Charles praised with a wide smile.

Erik couldn't help but grin when the boy whooped and continued running a streaking circle around the adults. "Don't go far, Pietro."

" _OK,Dad!_ " His son's voice echoed all around them.

"How fast is he, Charles?" Erik asked, stepping closer to the geneticist.

Charles continued jotting into his notebook as he answered, "I can't even calculate it without a large distance. But my guestimate is somewhere more than double the speed of a train."

" _Cool!_ " the boy's voice echoed all around them.

Erik rolled his eyes fondly. He hoped this high-paced exercising would tire the boy out.

"He's amazing, Erik." Erik looked to see Charles staring at him with a genuinely astounded, reverent gaze.

Erik couldn't help but agree. His son was awe-inspiring. But these feelings couldn't muddle Erik's fatherly instincts. "Are there dangers we should be aware of?"

"His mutation is just manifesting," Charles explained, closing his notebook. "By adolescence, he should be much faster than what he can do now."

Erik couldn't even imagine that.

"But, to answer your question," Charles continued, "we'll need to monitor his metabolism because it's obviously much higher than a typical child's. It should continue to increase with age and plateau at puberty, along with those powers."

Erik nodded and turned back to watch his son zip through the trees and back again. "We'll need to keep a closer eye on him."

"Oh, most definitely!" Charles agreed wholeheartedly, back to writing in his notebook.

" _Dad,doyouthinkIcanwalkonwater?!_ "

 _Lord, save me,_ Erik thought as he began his march into the trees. "Pietro, do not—."

_Splash!_

Charles did all he could to restrain his smirk as a dripping-wet, stone-faced Erik hauled his soggy son out of the woods and back into the mansion.

 

* * *

 

The following day, Erik had borrowed one of Charles's cars to bring his son into town.

"Dad,Icanrunwayfasterthanthecarcan'tIjustrun?!"

It was a decision he was currently regretting.

"No, Pietro," Erik answered as he kept his eyes on the road. "And if you stay by my side once we're there, I'll get you a present."

Peter, who had been straining against the bonds of his booster seat, instantly became angelic. Erik did a quick check of the metal seatbelt to ensure that the boy was, in fact, still bolted in.

"Ihavetogotothebathroom!"

Luckily, Erik was pulling the car into the town center's parking lot. As he got out, he began unfastening the metal seatbelt with his powers. "Pietro, how many times must I tell you to slow your speech?"

Peter huffed, finding the whole speed-talking ordeal just as frustrating as his father.

Once out of the car, the men found the nearest bathroom. Erik then dragged his son into the city office, holding a paper in one hand and Peter's hand in the other.

"Where are we?" Peter asked as they stepped into a short queue.

"We're changing your name."

Peter looked up with wide eyes. "Why?"

"Because we don't share a familial name."

Peter went quiet. As they moved forwards in line, Erik enjoyed the sudden quiet—until he realized the boy had gone too silent. He looked down at his son and instantly became alarmed at the quivering lip and tear-rimmed eyes.

"I like my name," Peter said softly. His tears were dangerously close to rolling down his cheeks.

Erik's brow furrowed. "What?"

"I like being called Pietro and Peter," he cried, letting a tear roll down. "I don't wanna be called _Erik!_ " He said that name like it was mud.

Erik fought to keep his grin at bay. "Pietro, we're changing your last name. You'll still be Pietro to me and Peter to everyone else."

Peter thought about that, as his eyes cleared. "What's my last name?"

"Maximoff. Your name is Pietro Django Maximoff. And we're changing it to match mine."

"You're not Maximoff?"

"I'm Erik Lehnsherr," he explained. "And you're about to become Pietro Django Lehnsherr."

Peter processed that. "Was Mama Lehnsherr?"

"She was."

"Oh. OK."

"Next!" a busty woman at a desk called.

Erik walked his son over to her.

"I'm gonna be Pietro Lehnsherr!" Peter declared excitedly. The woman looked in amusement at the boy then up to his father.

Erik didn't restrain his proud, shark-like grin at that.

 

* * *

 

After Peter became officially a Lehnsherr, Erik tucked the revised birth certificate into the car before walked him over to the local toy store.

"Arewegettingmypresent?!"

Erik looked down at the energetic boy. "We are."

Peter sang excitedly, pulling against his father's grip as he bounced and bounced and bounced towards the toy store.

_Erik._

Erik jolted at the sudden, intruding voice in his mind, but he quickly collected himself. _Charles. You know—_

_Please pick up the phone._

Riiiing! Riiiing!

The phone booth alongside the toy store began ringing, drawing Erik's attention.

"Come _ooooooon!_ " Peter whine, pulling his father closer to the entrance.

Erik held fast to his son's hand and marched towards the phone booth.

"Dad!" Peter protested.

Erik threw his son a look before yanking the receiver off the hook. "What do you want, Charles?"

"Ah, thank you for answering," Charles replied breezily. "Do you have a moment?"

"Dad!" Peter was using his body weight to lean towards the toy store.

"Make it quick," Erik barked, eyeing the child.

"Would you mind making a couple of stops on your way back? I have a parcel that just arrived at—"

" _Dad!_ "

"Yes, yes, Charles," Erik snapped. He let go of Peter's hand so he could reach into his leather jacket pocket for a pen and back of a receipt.

Peter began inching towards the toy store's doors.

"One moment, Charles," Erik said and crouched down to the boy's level, the handset resting against his shoulder. "Pietro, you may go inside and wait for me there— _but do not leave the store._ I'll be in in a moment."

Peter turned and dashed into the store before his father had even raised the handset back to his ear.

 _Toys._ Toys _everywhere._ Peter looked around in a wonder, grinning widely and wondering where to start. Bouncy balls and action figures and blocks and trains and—

_ROBOTS._

Peter marched in a trance towards the giant display of Super Robot. The silver, gleaming action figure sported a black cape and a victorious stance upon the stacks of Super Robot boxes. Peter reached for it, mesmerized by the robot arms and knobs and lights and _that cape_.

"Hey!" The robot was abruptly snatched from Peter's hands. Peter looked up to see a tall and pudgy salesclerk glowering down and holding Super Robot. "What do you think you're doing, kid?!"

Peter instantly felt bad. "I, I was looking… at the…"

"You can't handle the merchandise!" the man scolded with a pointed glare. "Do you even have any money to pay for this?!"

Peter shrank. "Um, I…"

The man made a sound of annoyance as he slammed Super Robot back onto the display. He then whirled on the boy and spat, "If you don't have money, that's _stealing_. _Bad kids_ steal. And _bad kids_ go to jail! Are you a bad kid?!"

Tears welled in Peter's eyes. He really, _really_ didn't want to go to jail. He shook his head.

"Well, if you try taking what isn't yours, that makes you a bad kid!" the clerk reprimanded. He jerked his hand towards the doors. "Now, scram!"

Peter stumbled back before sprinting out of the store. He was in tears by the time he reached his father.

"I know what a fucking return address is," Erik bit into the receiver. His gaze traveled down to the silver-haired child at his side. "You don't—" It was then that Erik noticed the blubbering state of his son. "Charles, I'll get your damn package." He slammed the phone back onto the receiver and crouched down in front of the boy.

No obvious injury, Erik assessed in relief. He wrapped his hands around the child's shoulders and asked, "Pietro, what happened?"

With a quivering lip, Peter gasped in air. The tears continued to run as he wailed, "I don't _wanna_ be a bad kid!"

Steel in Erik's blue gaze hardened. The metal lining the phone booth creaked. "Of course you aren't, son. Did someone tell you that you are?"

Peter nodded, squinting through his tears.

" _Who did?_ "

A repressed sob escaped Peter's lips before he launched into what had just happened in the toy store.

The phone booth creaked louder.

Wordlessly, Erik straightened and took his son's hand. He walked him to the front entrance of the store and then released him. "Pietro, I want you to stay right here while I go and speak with this employee. Do not move. Do you understand?"

In a trembling voice, Peter affirmed, "Y-yes."

The metal door opened for Erik as he strode into the store—and snapped locked behind him.

Peter stood on the street, taking deep breaths and letting his cries ease away. Distantly, he could hear a few shrieks of terror and his father's low voice. He couldn't make out what anyone was saying. He turned to peer into the window, but the toy boxes and displays blocked his shortened view.

The metal-lined glass door suddenly unlocked, and the bell above dinged as the tall and pudgy employee wobbled out. Erik was right on his heels with a piercing stare locked on the man.

"I'm s-sorry," the employee stumbled out an apology to Peter. He clutched a box in his hands and continued, "Y-you're a good kid, a-and I, um, w-wanted you to have this." He held the box out for the boy. "Free of charge."

Peter tentatively took the box. An image of Super Robot shined up at him, and he let himself smile.

The employee darted a fearful look at Erik as he backed himself into the store. Erik's steely gaze followed him. When the trembling man made it over the threshold of the store, the pointed edge of the metal employee name badge was finally eased out of the skin over the man's heart.

"Dad, it's Super Robot!"

Erik looked down at his son. Peter's tear-stained face was already lightening at the sight of the toy. Good.

"Let's go home and show it to Uncle Charles."

 

* * *

 

_**July 1961, North Salem, New York** _

The heat came in full-force by mid-June. By July, it was blistering. The night air was the only welcome reprieve from the pressing swelter of summer.

Which brought the three men of the mansion to sit in the study, all the windows wide open.

Charles worked at his typewriter with mounds of books swarming his desk. In front of the unlit fireplace, little Peter danced Super Robot on his Lego city. In the armchair, Erik nursed a glass of Scotch and watched the television report repetitious news.

And Erik. Was. Bored.

He didn't have a right to these feelings. His son was well-cared for. He didn't work a real job, aside from maintaining the mansion and its grounds. But as the past year had gone by, Erik couldn't resist a building _itch_ under his skin to do something.

Something meaningful.

Erik threw the remaining drink to the back of his throat and stared at the television.

From the desk, Charles sighed but didn't look up from a thick book. "I can't help but hear you when you project your thoughts."

Erik let his eyes train on his friend. "Would you prefer to hear me whine out loud?"

Charles snapped the book closed and leaned his arms on the desk. He met Erik's eyes and said, "What's eating you, Erik?"

Held under that compassionate gaze, the metal-bender admitted, "I want to do more with my life."

"Then do more with your life," Charles said simply as he leaned back into his chair.

As if it were that simple. "I need him to have stability," Erik said with a look towards Peter. The boy obliviously continued with his game.

"He'll start school in the fall," Charles reminded him.

Yes. Yes, they'd discussed it at length. Although Peter was a year too young for school, they were going to enroll him early. Peter's mind was already rolling with mutant-driven intelligence, and, honestly, the poor boy needed to make friends his own age. Super Robot could only entertain him for so long.

Erik was still training Peter to keep his super-speed out of the public eye.

"You could work, not that you'd need to," Charles offered easily.

"Nothing drives me anymore," Erik admitted begrudgingly. He still hated being a grateful mooch.

"You could work in an auto mechanic shop," Charles continued. "You enjoy priming the parts to—"

"I don't want to cater to people's _car problems,_ " Erik bit out bitterly. While Erik liked to work with machinery, he was still as abrasive towards people as ever. He glared at the carpet, hating that he sounded like a spoiled brat.

Quietly, Charles spoke. "This isn't about hobbies, then."

Erik fought to reign in his suddenly ragged breathing. "He's still out there, Charles. And I, I've been— _sitting_."

"You've been raising your son," Charles countered firmly. He waited until Erik met his gaze before he continued, "You aren't alone in this, Erik. I've been keeping tabs—"

"It isn't good enough!" Erik exclaimed suddenly, drawing the worried blue eyes of his son.

"If you go after him now," Charles said softly, "you won't be able to beat him. And then he'll come after everything you hold dear again, Erik."

Peter.

Erik looked down at the boy, and his churning rage was doused with a wave of guilt and fierce protective instincts. He wouldn't let Shaw take one more goddamn family member from him. Never again.

"Papa?" Peter asked, his worried eyes becoming wary and curious. Super Robot hung limply in his hand.

"It's time for bed, Pietro," Erik said through a thick throat. He held out a hand and helped his reluctant son up from the rug. "Grab your toys."

"Leave them," Charles said with a wave of his hand. "They won't bother me; I'm going to be trapped at this desk all night, as it is."

Letting Charles resume his work, Erik led his son down the hall to his bedroom. He let Peter pick out his pajamas and dress himself, and he leaned against the doorframe to ensure Peter didn't lie about brushing his teeth.

Once Peter was tucked into bed and heard his story, he asked, "Were you talking about that bad man? That killed Mama?"

Erik ran a large hand through his son's silver hair. "Don't worry about that, Pietro. He'll never be a part of our lives again, I swear it."

Peter still frowned. "Why didn't he go to jail?"

Erik ground his teeth and searched for an answer. "He had powers, too. Like mine and Uncle Charles's and yours. A jail cell… would not contain him."

Peter's frown didn't relent. "But he killed Mama."

"I know, Pietro." Heaven above, Erik _knew_.

"So how come he isn't in trouble?"

"He will be," Erik vowed solemnly. "I swear it; that man will be punished thoroughly when the time is right. You'll have to trust me until then."

Peter looked down with his frown. "OK."

Erik ran his hand through that mop of silver hair again. "Get some sleep, son."

Peter let his unhappy eyes close.

Erik got up from the bedside and left his son's room. He walked into the hallway and across the hall towards his room, but his hand paused on his doorknob. Part of his soul ached against the leaden weight that Shaw's existence bore. Erik couldn't sleep—not with these rampant thoughts.

So he walked down the hallway, into the study.

Charles still sat behind the stacks of books, but the only light on now was the desk lamp. He didn't even glance up as Erik reclaimed his usual seat in the armchair.

Erik let the ever-present Nazi coin from his pocket flicker in between each of one his knuckles in turn. He watched the telepath as he did so, noting the way the moonlight streamed in through the window behind him. It made Charles's chestnut hair seem to glow along the edges, as if he wore an actual aura.

 _Fitting,_ Erik thought broodingly, _for the savior of my existence._

Charles let a pencil fall flat to the desk and looked up. "As much as I appreciate the Jesus allusion, I think it's best to let you know you're shouting your thoughts again."

 _There's an open invitation to the chaos of my mind tonight,_ Erik mentally stated. He continued twirling the coin through his fingers.

Charles glanced at the coin; he knew all-too-well what it was. He looked at Erik questioningly.

In response, Erik pushed his pressing thoughts of the evening into the telepath's mind—the desires to hunt and filet Shaw, the abrasive truths he was forced to confront with Peter. The worry that Shaw would lead a life of victorious luxury for all his days.

"We're going to stop him, Erik," Charles promised soothingly.

"When?" Erik pressed.

"When you're strong enough in your powers," Charles said. "When we have the allies and resources to stand a chance."

The coin stopped. "I _am_ strong enough."

"Would you bet Peter's life on it?"

Erik jerked himself up and stalked to the desk to snarl, " _I would never jeopardize my son's life!_ "

"Then be better!" Charles shot back. "Strengthen your abilities! Meet allies! Because the moment we go to meet Shaw again, we'll need to be stronger than we were before."

Or we'll lose everything.

Erik knew it. He couldn't imagine Peter in Magda's bloody, bullet-ridden place on the docks of a year ago. And now, now that he's gotten to know Charles, Erik didn't… He couldn't…

Charles placed his consoling hand over Erik's and said, "You're not alone in this, Erik. This burden isn't solely yours."

And Erik believed him. The savior of his life had come and swooped in again, hefting up the lead weight that Shaw had left on Erik's soul.

When Erik managed to draw his gaze back to the present, Charles was staring at him with earnest support. Erik managed out, "I couldn't do this without you, Charles." He couldn't verbally confess how deeply he saw Charles as his personal Jesus; this statement would have to do.

And it did. Charles's cheeks heated. "I'm sure you'd manage."

"Not happily." Erik's stare was unwavering and honest—it was open.

Charles turned and began stacking up his papers with a soft sound of annoyance. "I'm never going to refocus on genetic coding tonight." He flicked off the light, bathing the two of them in moonlight.

Erik let himself begin to reform his barriers as the guilt of that fact trickled in. "I'm sorry. I—"

Abruptly, Charles turned and kissed him. Erik went stone still and silent, and his eyes widened in shock. When Charles pulled away and saw Erik's expression in the moonlight, he scoffed. "Please don't be as surprised as you look right now."

Erik blinked. Then he grabbed the back of the telepath's waiting form and pressed it to him, forming his mouth to his in a returning kiss.

And, as planned, both men didn't sleep that night—just not for the reasons they'd intended.

 

* * *

 

_**September 1961, North Salem, New York** _

"Do I have to go?"

Charles frowned at Peter's whining. The boy hadn't even gone to school yet, and he was already dreading it. Erik must have fed him lackluster ideas about it because Charles had certainly been nothing but enthusiastic about education.

"Of course!" Charles responded eventually. He pushed Peter on the wooden tree swing by the Xavier pond. "Every boy and girl attends schooling eventually. It'll be very fun!"

"Dad said they'll make me do lots of work," Peter grumbled.

 _Oh, heavens_ , Charles thought with an eye roll. Leave it to Erik to kill the dream of education before it'd even sprouted. "It'll be very interesting, I promise."

"I guess," Peter muttered. He gripped the sides of the swing and stared at his shoes as they glided above the ground.

"Your exercises with your father are work," Charles patiently reminded as he continued to push the boy. "Yet, those can be fun."

Peter couldn't deny that.

The adults were proud of the progress that Peter had made. Mainly, they'd focused on control. Peter now rarely spoke faster than a typical child, and he only moved at superhuman speeds when he desired. He was extraordinary in Charles's opinion.

"When's Papa coming home?"

Charles's attention was drawn back to the present. "After supper." Erik had gone into the city today to ensure that Peter had everything ready for his first day of school tomorrow. He had also been sent to pick up groceries and put gasoline in the car and pick up a few of Charles's books and recklessly inquire on leads concerning the whereabouts of a certain Nazi, cold-blooded killer—

But Charles tried not to think about that.

"Can we have ice cream for supper?"

 

* * *

 

The first day of kindergarten had been full of anxiety on all three's parts. Peter had never been away from Charles and Erik for an extended period of time. Peter had never been left to hide his mutant identity by himself. Peter had never made real efforts to make friends his own age. But Peter went to school—

And came home in an exuberant mood.

"There were so many kids!" Peter chattered happily, eating an after-school snack of a ham sandwich, carrots, a hot dog, sliced apple, and pudding. "And they thought my hair was so cool! And Ms. Bradley was so nice! And it was so fun! And there was one boy who talked to me, and we went and played on the slides at recess and pretended to be pirates and…"

Charles and Erik exchanged amused looks over the boy's head as he blithely rambled on.

Peter had obviously loved kindergarten. And Erik had made progress finding leads on Shaw's whereabouts while Peter was at school.

Perhaps, their fears were unnecessary.

 

* * *

 

_**January 1962, North Salem, New York** _

Or so it seemed.

After that first month, Erik had hit dead-end after dead-end concerning Shaw. Contacts either had little information to offer on the Nazi, or they were too frightened to give what they knew.

And the shiny newness of school had dullened considerably by the end of the first semester. By January, Peter was almost miserable.

"They keep making fun of my hair," he grumbled as he picked at his meal-sized snack.

"Perhaps they're jealous that their hair isn't an interesting color," Charles offered sympathetically.

But Peter didn't _want_ interesting. He didn't want the other kids asking him why he grew it silver, and he didn't want the other kids asking if he was already a grandpa.

He wanted to be normal.

"I wanna be like Raven," Peter mumbled with his head in his hand.

The men exchanged a look before Charles pressed, "Raven?"

"She can look like anyone she wants," Peter said. "Then I wouldn't have stupid hair."

Erik had had quite enough of that. He got off his wooden chair and marched up to his son's before kneeling. "Pietro, I want you to listen to me, and I want you to listen to me carefully."

Peter's sullen eyes looked to him as he obeyed.

"You will never be like those children," Erik said. "And none of those other children will ever be capable of all that you can do. You think Johnny or Anna or Stevie can run as fast as you? Can talk as fast as you, can _think_ as fast as you?"

Peter reluctantly shook his head.

"Do you think other men can read minds like Uncle Charles or manipulate metal like me?"

Peter, again, shook his head.

"Because we are different," his father said. "Because _you_ are different, and you are better than them, Pietro. You are mutant, and we are mutants, and we have nothing to be ashamed of."

Charles's hand rested on Erik's shoulder in silent support.

Peter reluctantly accepted that speech and turned back to his food.

Charles and Erik looked to each other before returning to their seats and coffee.

"So what'd you learn at school?" Charles asked as he sipped on his mug.

"We made family trees," Peter said as he began tearing off pieces of his sandwich. "Uncle Charles, what are you?"

His eyebrows rose as he took another drink of his strong coffee.

"What do you mean, Pietro?" Erik asked as he lounged against his chair.

"Is he really your brother?"

Charles sputtered, sending coffee out his nose and into his lungs. He slammed down the mug as he choked up the bitter warmth.

"God, no," Erik muttered with a frown. The men exchanged a look. They'd kept their relationship a secret for months, just to protect Peter if things didn't work out. Perhaps now was the time to come clean…?

"So he's really my caregiver?" Peter repeated the word he'd heard his mother and father use for the man when they were away.

The men exchanged another look, and Erik said, "I suppose…"

"OK." Peter returned to eat his sandwich.

The men relaxed. Peter would have to learn about their personal tie soon, but, luckily, that conversation could be postponed; the boy really did not need another reason to be teased at school.

That night, Peter had been tucked into bed, and Charles found himself wandering the halls to the mansion's enclosed gym.

Erik's wrapped knuckles pounded into the punching bag, again and again and again and again—moving so fast, it was no wonder that Peter was his son. He'd worked up a sweat and discarded his shirt, allowing his toned, tanned skin to display his working sweat.

And Charles enjoyed the view. He watched as Erik continued punching at a vicious speed, whirring until—

"Are you going to watch me all night?" Erik stepped away from the bag and began unwrapping his knuckles. His steely gaze pinned Charles to the spot.

But Charles didn't mind. He continued leaning against the wall, taking in the sight for all it was worth. "Are you planning to exercise all night?"

Erik softly snorted and threw the wrappings into a dark gym bag. "I've only done half of my exercises. I still need to manipulate my powers."

And so had this routine gone every night for the past few months. Peter would go to bed, Charles would work on his research in his study, and Erik would train himself against any (especially Nazi) threats.

"Perhaps, I'll join you," Charles offered.

Erik raised an eyebrow.

 _How fully can I infiltrate your mind?_ Charles mentally pushed to Erik. _How long before I have you on your knees—_

"Have you come to pester me into bed again?" Erik's typically stoic mouth betrayed him with a smirk.

Charles grinned and stepped forwards. "Can you blame me?"

Hours later, the men laid in tangled, warm sheets as the snowy, winter moonlight filtered in through the window.

"We'll have to tell him at some point, you know," Charles said after a while.

Erik didn't need to know to whom Charles was referring. "Yes." He lazily trailed a finger down Charles's back.

Charles shivered. "I wish school wasn't so difficult on him. He's so bright; I'd hate for his brilliance to become uncultivated because he's in an uncomfortable environment."

Erik offered mute agreement. Part of his steel heart warmed at Charles's genuine care for his son.

"I… I was considering…"

Erik looked to Charles's face. The telepath was rarely bashful.

"I want Peter to have a safe environment to learn in," Charles said in a rush. "And I want children like him to feel comfortable to explore the world while embracing who they are. And if they were to find companionship with each other because of their shared genetic abnormalities—"

"Spit it out, Charles."

"I want to turn the mansion into a sanctuary," Charles blurted. "I… I want to turn it into a school so that mutant children may earn their educations in an accepting environment. And, perhaps, those without the X gene can join it once mutation becomes more widely accepted—"

Erik laid a finger over Charles's lips and softly encouraged, "I think that's a wonderful idea."

Charles's cheeks bloomed with a happy heat. "It's not too far-fetched for this old geneticist to pursue?"

Erik chuckled and rolled onto his back. "Nothing is too far-fetched for you, Charles. You're the most powerful man I know; you could take over the world if you wanted it."

Charles smiled and buried the side of his face into his plush pillow.

With his eyes closed, Erik added, "Besides, how hard could it be to corral tens of superbeing children into learning?"

 

* * *

 

_**June 1962, North Salem, New York** _

But the plan didn't have time to move past the dreaming stages.

For one, it had become increasingly difficult to keep Peter willing to attend school. The other kids still avoided him when they could, and Peter was excelling beyond a typical kindergartener's abilities. The school year had just come to a close, but the boy was already reading chapter books. Erik and Charles couldn't very well enroll him in a higher grade when he has only just-turned five.

For another, Erik had become consumed with locating Shaw. He found his days spent speaking with his anti-Nazi contacts to find Shaw. His nights were spent training to fight Shaw.

And, for a third, Charles had been finishing up his second PhD. It was only a couple of weeks ago that he had turned in his thesis on genetic mutation, earning the doctorate from Oxford.

And, to celebrate, he lounged on a tree-shaded blanket in his backyard while Peter played on the grass and Erik hunted down information on Shaw in Argentina.

What a gaudy celebration.

"How about 'celebration,'" Charles called out from behind his sunglasses.

"Uh, s—"

"C."

" _C_ -E-L-E-B-R-A…"

"What's the group of letters that makes the 'shun' sound—"

"T-I-O-N!" Peter finished enthusiastically.

Charles grinned. This boy really was extraordinary.

"It's hot, Uncle Charles," Peter complained from his sun-exposed spot on the grass. He moved Super Robot around in the air, rustling the silver cape around his neck.

"You _could_ take off the cape," Charles suggested, already expecting the answer.

"I'm a superhero!" Peter replied indignantly. "I _have_ to wear it!"

Charles nodded sagely. "Yes, of course." Had they already taught the boy to swim, they could be wading in the pond. And without Erik here, he didn't want to try teaching the super-speedy boy alone.

"Uncle Charles, since you're a doctor, can you fix Rob?" Peter held up Super Robot.

Charles flicked a glance over. "What happened to him?"

"His knee bends funny."

A beat of silence. "Were you dropping him from the balcony again?"

"…No…"

"Peter."

"He wanted to fly!"

Charles rolled his eyes in fond amusement. "Perhaps a repairman in town can save our friend's bad knee."

"Neat! Can we go now?!"

"How about we wait to go into town until your father returns to the States," Charles proposed as he pushed himself up off the blanket, "and we go inside for ice cream right now?"

"YES!" Peter shot up and appeared at Charles's side in a silver streak.

Charles smiled at him, grabbed the blanket, and then took the boy's hand. As they strolled towards the mansion, Charles asked, "Can you spell 'robot?'"

"R-O-B-O-T!" he confidently replied.

Clever boy.

 

* * *

 

The following day, Erik returned from Argentina with intel on Shaw's current base of operations. He was scheming out when and how to best infiltrate the ship, when Peter came in, asking when they could go into town to fix Rob.

Erik had looked down at his son's large, pleading blue eyes, and his vengeful heart softened. The plans on Shaw could wait… a day. For him—for Pietro.

So, hand-in-hand, father and son strolled around the shops on Main Street so that Rob the Super Robot could have his plastic knee mended.

 _It was a shame it wasn't made of metal_ , Erik mentally griped.

"There are ducks in the pond!" Peter exclaimed, pulling on Erik with one hand and gripping the newly-fixed Super Robot in the other.

"I'd hope so," Erik commented dryly. The duck pond ahead was a duck pond, after all.

" _I gotta pet 'em!_ "

And before Erik's bellowed "No!" could reach Peter's small ears, his son's hand disappeared from his. In a silver blur, the young mutant was gone.

Panic shot through Erik's chest, although he tried to rationally work through this. Peter was a mere few hundred feet ahead, somewhere. Erik's feet hurried along the cement path, telling himself that his son couldn't get into too much trouble in a mere minute.

Erik's mouth tightened as he considered his son's overly-bubbly, inquisitive nature. Moving at impossible speeds, that boy could make a minute an eternity.

Erik rounded into the open space of the pond, looking around for the familiar silver hair. There were park benches, people tossing bread to the ducks, and large trees shading the water.

But. No. Peter.

"Pietro?" Erik called out, whirling around to find him. Small girl, coddling parents, group of teenagers, flirtatious couple—

" _Ah!_ "

Erik snapped to attention and turned towards the cry of pain. And there—there he was.

Peter was on the opposite side of the pond, lying belly-down on the sidewalk. A large, rubber-soled boot pressed into his back, pinning him to the pavement. Erik tore his eyes away from Peter's frantic, unharmed face to look at the man _stomping_ on his son.

The large man was tall, muscled, and impassive. His bulky arms hung at his sides as he stared at Erik. And upon looking at that man's buzzed hair, and thick, scarred face, Erik instantly recognized him.

It was The Hound. The Bloodhound, one of Shaw's command. Erik had heard of this monster for months, learning how he tracked down anyone who tried to escape Shaw's wrath, using his mutant abilities to smell a person's scent and follow them to the ends of the earth—

"Hello, Erik," the Hound said.

Peter writhed in a burst of energy, but he remained trapped under that foot. The Hound looked down at him and dug his boot in deeper until the boy stopped moving to cry out in pain.

" _Let him go,_ " Erik snarled, taking a step closer to the edge of the pond.

Around them, people's silver watches and gold rings and metallic zippers rattled with energy. The ducks quacked and hurried to fly away. The small family and teenagers and lovers shrieked and scurried away from the stand-off.

"There's no metal for you to work with here," the Hound said. "We made sure of that."

Erik remained stone. "Let my son go."

"You know who I am, don't you?" he continued. "I am speaking through the mouth of my trusted friend, thanks to Emma's abilities. But you know who these words belong to."

_Shaw._

Erik hadn't realized he'd spat the name aloud until the Hound said, "You were always so bright. Couldn't perform on cue, but we all have our faults—"

"LET PIETRO GO!" The air thrummed with energy at Erik's furious bellows, no metal to manipulate.

"I've come to give you a message," the Hound said. "If you find me, we will kill your son. If you think you've almost found me, we will kill your son. If you keep looking for me, we will kill your son."

Erik could barely hear the repeated threat over his own ragged breathing. Rage twisted through him like a hot snake, coiling in his lungs and threatening to demolish this whole city in a second.

"Dad!" Peter cried out, his desperate face pleading for the man across the water.

Erik's hands began to shake. He thought of Anya, the same age as his son now, begging him for help at the hands of merciless men.

"We look forward to your compliance," the Hound said. The edge of his mouth had the nerve to creep up.

Suddenly, Peter shot his arms out and up, latching onto the Hound's leg. His hands flew under the material, and he lodged his nails into the flesh there, using his super-speed to shred the man's leg like a scratching post.

The Hound jerked back with a glare and a curse. His boot instinctively came off the boy, allowing Peter to scramble up. But the Hound had been trained to expect his opponent's moves; he kicked Peter in the face before the boy could make it up. Peter collapsed onto his back with a scream.

And Erik. Saw. Red.

The Hound's pointed glower on the child froze. His reaching, thick hands froze. His mid-kick legs froze. He couldn't move; he could barely breathe under the invisible grasp that now held him.

Across the water, Erik had his hand outstretched as he used everything he was to protect his son.

Slowly, the Hound's rigid body was moved away from the trembling, bleeding five-year-old. The Hound was dragged across the sidewalk, pulled across the pond. His rubber-soled boots skimmed the water's surface as he slid closer to Erik.

But Erik stopped him in the very center of the pond. His face was burning with rage, and his outstretched hand shook. "You will never take him from me. You will never again take away those who I hold dear. _He is mine!_ And you. Are. Too."

Erik's fingers curled inwards, forming a fist as he used all of his thrumming power to _pull_.

The Hound's eyes were permitted to widen just enough to show that he was shocked, afraid, and tortured. Erik relished in that small sign of pain before he pulled his hand backwards.

And all the blood's iron, all of the bones' calcium, and all of the metal making up this man's human existence was yanked from his very body. Erik opened his hand, and the metal splashed into the water. The Hound's withered and crumpled corpse splashed in next, bobbing at the pond's surface.

Erik's thrumming power dulled, and his ears rang. He stumbled a step backwards, and he was dimly aware that his nose was bleeding.

The small sob is what snapped him back to the present.

Erik looked across the water to where his son had wrapped his arms around his knees. He walked around the pond, never letting his eyes stray from the crying boy.

When Erik reached him, Peter looked up at him in fear. Erik's heart chipped, hating that his son saw him as the villain.

"Dad," Peter sobbed, not knowing how to process what he had been forced to witness. His left eye was bloodied and throbbing, his back was bruised, and his father had just killed a man.

Slowly, Erik knelt and gathered his son into his arms; Peter let him. With his child in his arms, Erik allowed himself a fraction of relief. He stood up as the two clung to one another, and he couldn't dismiss how hard Peter was shaking.

Erik took his son home.

 

* * *

 

"My God!" Charles hurried out from behind his desk, dropping his glasses onto them. He stared in horrified shock as Erik stoically carried the silver-haired child into the study. Charles's eyes skimmed over Erik before latching onto the bloodied, silent boy. "What the hell happened?"

"Shaw."

Charles's heart clenched, and he snapped his gaze up to look at Erik again. Erik's face was emotionless.

Charles pulled his stare away and tried to think rationally. "Let's, let's take him to the kitchen." He led the way as Erik trailed behind with his son.

Once there, Erik sat Peter on the island, but they didn't let go of one another. Charles scrambled around, pulling the first aid kit out from under the sink and an icepack out of the freezer.

"This may sting," Charles cautioned the child as he dabbed an alcohol swab at the cut above his eye. Peter winced and frowned but otherwise didn't respond.

"Tell me everything," Charles demanded as he cast Erik a firm, worried look.

And so Erik told him everything. He gave every detail as Charles tended to his son's injury.

After cleaning and bandaging the head wound, Charles had Peter hold the icepack to his eye. The boy's cheek and eye would be a horrific purple soon if the swelling and redness was anything to go on.

"Erik, we're not ready to face him yet," Charles said quietly as he faced his partner. "We finally have the information we've needed thanks to you, but we don't have the alliances. After today—"

"Today ensured that Shaw is my top priority," Erik hissed, finally showing any sign of life.

Charles stilled. "Perhaps, you need to reprioritize then."

The blood from Erik's face drained as he realized what he'd said.

Charles looked to Peter with a small, forced smile. "You'll feel better in the morning, Peter." He stepped away and walked out of the kitchen, not bothering with a proper goodnight.

Erik let out a small sigh and leaned against the island. He looked at Peter; his son was slumped, limply holding the ice to his face.

"Let's head to bed," Erik said softly, picking his child back up and carrying him out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and to Peter's bedroom.

"Which pajamas would you like tonight?" Erik asked as he walked to the ensuite bathroom to start a bath.

Peter just shrugged.

Erik felt a mix of relief at receiving a response and pain at seeing his son's dismal expression. He grabbed the first pair of pajamas and underwear that his hand touched and brought Peter into the bathroom.

During his bath, Peter moved at a normal child's speed. He didn't use his super speed to make his shampooing go faster (and sudsier) like he usually did. He didn't touch the bobbing bath toys that Erik had placed in the water.

Erik didn't really blame him; the floating toys reminded him of the Hound's floating corpse.

After the boy had been bathed and dressed, Erik turned out the lights and carried Peter to bed. Neither one of them wanted to let go, so Erik laid down on the mattress with his son sprawled across his chest.

They lied in silence until Erik asked, "Where's Rob?" His heart sank as he mentally retraced to where he'd last seen the Super Robot.

"He fell into the pond," Peter replied. His soft voice was nearly absorbed by Erik's flannel shirt.

Erik closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Pietro. We can buy you another."

"I don't want one."

Erik waited a beat before saying, "I'm sorry that that man grabbed you today. And I'm sorry that you had to watch… what I did."

"It was kinda scary," Peter murmured. "But it was kinda cool."

Erik wasn't sure if he was relieved or horrified.

"I'm not cool," Peter mumbled, so soft that Erik almost didn't catch it.

"Why on earth would you say that?" Erik demanded in a gentle voice. Did Peter want to kill people? Did he honestly _envy_ what Erik had done?

"My powers didn't help me," Peter said. "I tried to run away, but I couldn't."

"Pietro, if that monstrous man hadn't had the unfair advantage of his size and sneaking up on you, you would have easily outrun him."

"But what's the point of being a superhero if I can't beat the bad guys?" Peter wondered aloud.

He had a point.

"You will one day," Erik assured him. "Once you're older."

So softly that Erik wasn't sure if he properly heard him, Peter said, "I'm not a superhero."

 

* * *

 

_**September 1962, North Salem, New York** _

Weeks past. And as Peter's bruises faded from purples to blues to greens to yellows, he slowly came back into himself. He let himself leave Charles's and Erik's sides to speed around the mansion. He became perfectly happy to roam the grounds as he had before. From a distance, the boy seemed perfectly, happily normal.

But Charles and Erik noticed how the boy no longer carried his Super Robot. He no longer wore his cape. And he no longer claimed to be a superhero.

Charles slowly relented to Erik's insistence that the Shaw being top priority had been a slip of the tongue. Lord knew how much Erik had cared about the two of them.

So the three remained based at the mansion. Peter started the first grade. Moira MacTaggert accepted their pleas for government assistance in mutant matters (seeing as how she wanted to stop Shaw almost as much as they did). And Charles and Erik looked for mutants to help unite against Shaw.

"How was first grade today, Peter?" Hank asked enthusiastically as he walked into the kitchen.

From the table, Erik glanced up before returning to scour the newspaper for possible mutant sightings. Hank's presence had become routine at this point.

Peter lolled his head to look at the mutant who was known to drop by. "It sucked."

"Pietro," Erik reprimanded from behind his newspaper.

"Well, it did," Peter mumbled to himself as he picked up his sandwich.

Hank leaned against the island beside Peter. "Elementary school can be tough. Just focus on learning and being kind, and you'll get through it." He smiled.

"That's what Uncle Charles always says," Peter grumbled at his sandwich.

Charles strolled into the kitchen with an "And Uncle Charles is always right." He smiled at the men before focusing on Hank. "Dr. McCoy! To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Yes, Hank," another Charles asked as he strode into the kitchen. "To what _do_ we owe the pleasure?" This Charles looked over at Peter and winked, making the child giggle.

"Raven, if you could kindly take off my face—"

Blue scales rose and matted across the second Charles's form, leaving behind the blonde version of Raven.

"Thank you," Charles said, although he didn't hide his amusement. He turned back to Hank.

"Well, at the Division X Facility, I was able to create a kind of amazing device," Hank said enthusiastically. "I'm calling it Cerebro, and it…"

As Hank went on, Peter tugged on Raven's hand. "Do me! Do me!"

Raven smiled at him before the blue scales shifted once more. In a blink, the woman had shrunken down to a mirrored image of the silver-haired child.

Peter cheered. Ever since Raven had come to stay with them last week, she had become Peter's favorite toy in the afternoons and the X-Men's tool during the nights.

"Your powers kick ass!" Peter yelled with a smile.

Erik dropped the newspaper to the table and barked, "Pietro!" He wondered when the boy had started cursing.

Peter blinked at him innocently. "I heard Raven say it!"

As Erik's turned his sharp gaze to her, the Raven-as-Peter clone gave Peter a look. "And I told you not to say it."

"No," Peter defended innocently, "you told me not to say sh—"

Raven-as-Peter clamped her small hand over his mouth. "Let's just go play, alright?" As Peter cheered, Raven-as-Peter uncovered his mouth to grab his hand and drag him out of the room.

Erik stared after them as they disappeared, thanking every god out there that his son had not been a twin.

"That's extraordinary, Hank!" Charles praised, drawing Erik's attention back to their conversation. Charles turned to Erik with bright eyes. "This will increase our mutant-searching abilities tenfold!"

"If it works," Hank threw in with a hesitant look.

Charles turned back to him and clapped his shoulder. "Of course it'll work. I have no doubt that you'll be able to make this fantastical idea a true reality."

Erik tried to stifle the surge of possessiveness at seeing Charles's hand on another.

Charles, oblivious to Erik's feelings, let go of Hank and turned back to his discrete partner. "Should we go tonight?"

Erik stood up, stretching after sitting for so long. He tossed the paper on the table and said, "Raven will bite off my head if she's on babysitting duty again. We should go now; Peter can miss a day of school." Tomorrow would be Friday after all; it'd be a long weekend for all of them.

"I'll ready the jet," Hank cheerily announced.

Charles squinted at him. "Hank, did you park it on the lawn again?"

Hank looked around before quickly backing out of the room.

Charles was frowning as Erik came to his side. "If he ruins the grass again, _he's_ paying for it."

Erik grinned and kissed the side of his head. "I'm sure he will."

Charles huffed, knowing that he never would. He patted Erik's chest and said, "Go get Peter ready; I'll pack our bags."

Erik obeyed, striding out of the kitchen and searching for his son; he had a conversation that he wanted to have with Peter before they left anyways.

Peter wasn't in his room, and he wasn't on the main level. Erik heard a distant child laughing, and he followed the sound outside.

"How can you do that?" Peter asked.

Erik looked up to see his Peter sitting on a tree branch, watching Raven hold herself onto a different branch by her toes alone. Except, Raven was still the mirror image of his son, causing Erik's heart to stutter in fear.

"Trapeze artists taught me," Raven-as-Peter replied breezily.

"Can you teach me?!"

"No," Erik said, marching forwards and looking up at the tree. "Come down, Pietro. We need to talk."

Peter whined and groaned, but he began pushing himself off the branch.

Raven grinned and turned back into her naturally blue self. She kicked off her branch, grabbed another, and blithely swung to land on the lawn. Her feet dug holes into the grass as she landed.

"Stop ruining the lawn!" Charles's voice called from somewhere in the mansion.

Raven grinned.

"Blue suits you," Erik told her. Raven looked to him, quickly checking how serious he was. But he was completely serious, and she knew it; Erik had been trying to convince her to embrace her naturally mutant form since they day they met.

"I gave up traveling to help you," she said. She turned and walked to the mansion, calling over her shoulder, "Don't comment on appearance again."

Erik raised an eyebrow. That woman was always so damn insecure.

In a blur, Peter swung from branch to branch to— open air. His fingers skimmed the last branch before he tumbled into a fall.

Erik, luckily, had been standing right below and caught him easily.

Peter grinned in a daze. "Whoa."

Erik's stare was disapproving.

Peter's grin turned sheepish as he hopped out of his father's arms.

"We're heading out to the CIA facility; Hank has something to show Uncle Charles," Erik said.

"OK."

"Which means we won't be back in time for you to attend school tomorrow."

"WOOHOO!" In dizzying circles, Peter gaily ran around his father.

Erik looked to the heavens for strength, even as an amused smile came to his lips. "Pietro, I have something for you as well."

Peter came to an abrupt halt in front of him, looking up with greedy, blue eyes. "What?"

Erik knelt in front of the boy and pulled a thin strip of metal out of his jeans pocket. "This is a special kind of metal. I've been working on it for a week so that it would be like no other."

Peter peered curiously down at it. It had lots of different colors melted together, swirling and blending into a sheet.

"It has gold and platinum and silver and sterling silver and iron and copper and aluminum and steel and tin and titanium and brass."

Peter's eyes widened.

"And I would like _you_ to wear it," Erik continued. "I know exactly how these combined metals feel with my power, and I could track it anywhere in the world. If you wore it, I'd always be able to find you."

Peter scrunched his nose. "Like a bracelet?"

"Like a link," Erik amended. "A link from you to me."

Peter slowly held out his hand.

Erik gave him a small smile before using his powers to size the band. Peter watched in fascination as the strip curved and locked itself at his wrist.

"Not too tight?" Erik checked, moving the bracelet around on his son's wrist.

Peter shook his head, still staring at it.

Erik's hands rested on it. "You'll never be alone in this world, Pietro. When you wear this band, you'll know that I can feel it."

Peter met his father's eyes and saw the sincerity there.

"So, if you're ever afraid or in danger," Erik said, "you can look at this and know that I'm coming to help you."

Peter nodded and looked back at the bracelet.

Erik kissed the top of his head and stood up. "Now, let's go fly Hank's jet."

 

* * *

 

_**October 1962, Classified Location** _

Another week passed with success. The three men and Raven had ended up staying with Hank at the Division X Facility to locate mutants and test their powers. They were making good progress with Alex, Angel, Sean, and Darwin. They were making good progress with the development of Cerebro.

And Peter didn't mind taking a week off from school.

"Read _these_ ," Charles said as he dropped a small pile of short books on the table, "before we return."

Peter groaned and slumped his head to meet the table.

Charles grinned and ruffled the silver hair. "Missing out on valuable learning has its consequences."

Peter looked up at him with defeated eyes. "Can't I just be stupid?"

Charles chuckled and tapped the boy's nose. "Never."

Peter's head returned to the table.

"Don't worry," the blonde Raven said with a smile, coming into the sitting room, "I'll make sure that our favorite little genius reads every single word." Her amused, predatory eyes landed on the boy.

Peter looked up at her in misery.

"We'll be late, Charles," Erik announced, quickly walking into the room.

Charles nodded, bidding Peter and Raven goodbyes. If they were to intercept Shaw and Frost in the USSR, they would need to move quickly.

Erik knelt down in front of his son. "Listen to Raven. Do not go running where she can't find you. And do not leave this facility. Understood?"

Peter slouched. "Dad, I—"

" _Understood?_ " Erik repeated in Polish.

" _Tak,_ " Peter mumbled glumly.

Erik kissed the side of his head and stood. "We'll be back in two to three days, depending on how this goes," he told Raven before checking his watch. He marched for the door and called over his shoulder, "Be good, Pietro!"

Charles slowly backed towards the door. "Thank you so much, Raven. Really, we wouldn't feel comfortable with any of this, had you not been able or willing—" The back of Charles's shirt was yanked by Erik's hand, dragging the telepath out the door and around the corner.

After a moment, Erik's unhappy face popped back into the doorframe. "Thank you, Raven." He was out of sight before Raven could reply.

Raven turned to Peter in amusement. "If Charles asks, you read every word of these damn books." She grabbed the boy's hand. "Let's go annoy Hank."

 

* * *

 

On the jet, Charles and Erik piloted as Moira slept out on an armchair. The quiet dark melted around them as they shot through the night.

From his steering position, Charles looked over at his companion. Erik stared at nothing, silently dancing his Nazi coin in-between his fingers.

"Erik," Charles said with a sigh, "before we get there, I think we should reestablish boundaries."

Erik remained silent.

Charles took that as an urge to continue. "We can't kill anyone. Even Shaw. He and any mutant siding with him must be turned over to the proper authorities. We—"

"You can't ask that of me, Charles." Erik's voice was as quiet and dark as the night.

Charles pursed his lips. "We can't start playing God, Erik. If we kill Shaw, then we might as well kill Emma, and then anyone else that follows him. It won't end. Shaw can be maintained by the proper prisons—"

"And if, behind bars, he sends his minions after Pietro?" Erik snapped. "What then?"

Charles paled. "If we cut off his ties with—"

Erik scoffed.

Charles frowned. "We can't do this, Erik. We're not murderers. Deciding who gets to live and who gets to die—it'll consume us."

Erik returned to silence.

"Please," Charles said. "I know… I know you killed that man already. But your powers were uncontrollable; you can't even recreate what you did that day. And you were defending Peter—"

"I'm defending Pietro further by ending Shaw," Erik growled.

"Please," Charles pled, casting desperate looks to his partner. "Please just—promise me. Promise me that you won't kill him. That we'll take him to the authorities."

Erik didn't speak.

" _Promise me,_ " Charles begged, his voice breaking.

Erik's hard heart softened enough to relent. For Charles's sake, he would force himself to accept only Shaw's immense pain and incarceration as supplement for all of the trauma he had caused. "…I promise."

Relaxing a bit, Charles redirected his attention to the skies.

The two remained in silence until Charles asked, "Do you think Peter will be alright while we're gone? There are plenty of guards, but—"

"Those guards are nothing against Shaw," Erik grumbled. "But I trust Raven to keep him safe."

Charles nodded. "You're right; she'd do anything for him."

Erik leaned back in his seat. "Besides, with Peter stuck inside and full of energy—I worry for the guards and recruits."

Charles grinned.

 

* * *

 

At the CIA facility, Peter spent the day with Raven playing games, reading those damn books, and plaguing Hank whenever possible.

By the time night rolled in, Hank snapped, "I can't focus on this research if you keep feeding him sugar and then letting him loose in my lab."

From her position on a stool, Raven casually looked over and watched as the silver streak of a boy zoomed around the room. Metal bowls were knocked onto the tile and papers were sent flying as Peter sped past. "What? I thought you'd be glad to document his speeds after varying sugar intakes." She smiled sweetly.

Hank gave her a dead stare. "Get out of my lab, Raven."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. Take a break. You've been working all day."

He pointed an accusatory finger at her. "Because you keep messing up my lab!"

Peter appeared in front of Beast. "Hank, do you wanna play pinball with us?!" He smiled enthusiastically.

Raven slid off her stool and sauntered up to Hank with a playful smile. "Yeah, Hank. Don't you wanna play pinball with us?"

Hank glared at her before looking down at the eager boy. Peter's large blue eyes were so innocently pleading… "Ugh. Yeah, sure. Let's go play some pinball."

"Yay!" Peter grabbed Hank's hand and began yanking him out of the lab.

Raven folded her arms and trailed after them with a smile.

 

* * *

 

Peter was speeding through pinball game after pinball game as all the recruits sat on the couches. Peter had tried playing with Raven and Hank at first, but everyone was much happier to let the boy work his super-speed magic by himself.

"I want to be called Mystique," Raven said after announcing a need for code names.

"Damn! I wanted to be called Mystique," Sean complained.

"Well, tough," Raven said. "I called it." Her blue scales shifted, transforming her blonde-haired form into an exact replica of Sean. "And I'm way more mysterious than you."

They went around the room, each mutant taking a turn to declare their desired code name. After Alex gave off an impressive display of his fiery power, Hank turned to young Peter and asked what he wanted to be called.

Peter looked confused. "Peter. Except my dad calls me Pietro 'cause that's my real name."

The group chuckled, and Raven elaborated, "What do you want your superhero name to be?"

Peter blinked. "Um… Super robot… ultra… ninja spy?"

"Speedy?" Alex suggested with a shrug.

"The Bullet?" Darwin chimed in.

"How 'bout Quicksilver?" Hank said. They looked to him, and he pointed to Peter. "His hair is silver, he's fast, and his dad is the god of metal."

"Yeah!" Peter agreed readily.

Raven grinned. "Quicksilver it is." She put a hand on his small shoulder and guided him to sit beside her on the couch.

Peter smiled as he looked around at all the mutants; he felt like one of the team.

And then screaming started.

In the distance, shrieks of agony and death wafted to the mutants. The team looked at each other and stood, listening to pinpoint what the hell was happening.

"What is that?" Peter asked in fear.

"I don't know," Raven said. She pushed Peter behind her and faced the open window. "Stay behind me, OK?"

The screaming grew louder as the villains made their way closer and closer to the group. Suddenly, bullets shot off, shattering glass and ricocheting around the room. The young mutants took off out of the room, trying to take cover.

"Don't let go of my hand!" Raven told Peter with frantic tears in her eyes.

Seeing her fear heightened his. Peter gripped her hand and wished his dad was there to stop all of the bullets.

The guards wouldn't let them through the hallway, and then the villains were upon them. The mutant group took off, back the way they had come until they locked themselves in a room.

"Why are they dying?" Peter asked in a tight voice. His eyes were locked on the bodies lying haphazardly in the center area.

Raven knelt down in front of him with her hands on the tops of his arms. "Peter, hey. It's gonna be OK. I'm gonna get us out of this, I promise." When Peter still stared in fear at the bodies, Raven called, "Peter! Look at me." He did. "Don't look at them. Just look at me. None of them are here. It's just us."

Slowly, Peter's panic calmed.

And then the door flew open.

Shaw strode in with a breezy, clean smile. "Good evening! My name's Sebastian Shaw. And I am not here to hurt you."

Raven stood and faced the man, pushing Peter behind her. Hank took a step closer to them.

Shaw commanded Azazel to kill a remaining guard in the open area, and he was stabbed before their eyes. Peter let out a soft whimper.

Shaw then launched into a soft-spoken speech, playing on their fears and enticing to their vanities. He invited them to join his ranks.

And Angel took his hand.

"Angel…" Raven said with a furrowed brow.

"Are you kiddin' me?" Sean spat in hurt disbelief.

Angel encouraged them to come with her.

From behind Raven's legs, Peter peaked out. Angel had been nice to him. She had pretty wings, and she was different, too. She had been a part of them. And now she was just… leaving?

"What about you, young man?" Shaw offered in a sure voice. He stared directly at Peter and said, "I know you have Lehnsherr blood in you, but you're just like us; you're a mutant through and through. I think you should get to decide what happens to you."

"He's not going _anywhere_ with you," Raven snarled through a thick throat.

Shaw dismissed her and looked to Peter. "Pietro?"

Peter frowned and took an instinctive step back. _No one_ ever called him that. Only his father. And to hear another, especially his father's enemy, say his private name?

"You killed my mom," Peter accused with hateful, hurting eyes.

As Angel looked down, Shaw became distantly amused. "No; your father did that all on his own." He then turned, taking his mutants with him.

Darwin shared looks with his friends before calling out for Shaw.

Raven and Hank bustled Peter out of the room before they could overhear Darwin's plans. Before they could see him turn to ash and then fire and then nothing.

 

* * *

 

After her capture, Emma Frost was brought to Langley. It was there that Charles had called to check in, and Raven filled him in on everything that had happened.

So Erik was perfectly ready to shred the world apart when the jet landed at Division X.

"Where is he?!" Erik demanded as he hurled himself off the just-landed jet. Charles followed him at a slower pace, but his expression was entirely concerned. Moira quietly followed the men into the ruined CIA facility.

"Dad!"

Erik turned to his right, seeing his silver-haired son streak towards him and ram into him for a hug. Erik grunted at the high impact but held his son tightly to him.

"Are you hurt?" Erik asked, crouching down to worriedly look at his son. He ran his hand through that silver hair as he looked him over.

Peter shook his head. "I'm OK. Raven and Hank took good care of me."

Charles looked to the two. Raven and Hank glanced at one another, realized how close they stood, and awkwardly shuffled apart.

Erik didn't even glance up at them. "Come on. We're going home." He stood and took Peter's hand.

"We need everyone to stay and answer some questions," Moira protested gently.

"Ask them at the mansion," Erik growled, heading back for the jet.

"My men are _dead_ ," Moira said with a glare. "Show the courtesy—"

"Your men were useless," Erik snapped back, stopping in front of her. "You promised me that my son would be safe, and Shaw cut through them like _tissue paper_."

"They were unprepared and innocent!"

"They are insignificant."

Moira bristled at that and opened her angered mouth when Charles cut her off.

"Moira, please," he cut in gently. "We can answer your questions just as well in a much safer location."

Moira and Erik glared at each other, and she tried not to focus on the hint of triumph in Erik's eyes. "Fine. Let me call my superiors to fill them in."

"Call them on the jet," Erik snarled before walking his son into the aircraft.

Charles's shoulders slumped as he sighed. What a mess.

"I'm calling them here," Moira snapped, marching past the telepath and into one of the offices.

"Hank, take anything that you might need," Charles called to his friend as he stuffed his fists into his pockets. "The mansion will serve as our new base of operations."

"But Cerebro—"

"Can be recreated," Charles intercepted. He raised an eyebrow. "Or are you not up for the challenge?"

As Hank's expression clouded with determination, Charles grinned.

 

* * *

 

_**October 1962, North Salem, New York** _

Three weeks passed at the mansion. Peter (unhappily) returned to school. Hank transported the materials needed to recreate Cerebro in the mansion. He created devices to improve the powers of the team, and the team of mutants worked on fine-tuning their abilities.

But some were more difficult to work with than others.

"Focus, Erik," Charles encouraged.

Erik's outstretched hands shook as he reached his powers towards the satellite. He pulled with his power, pulled, pulled, pulled—

Erik collapsed against the railing, red-faced and panting.

"You know, I think true focus lies somewhere between rage and serenity," Charles commented with his hands in his pockets. He strode towards Erik. "Like that day in town with Peter. You were able to use your powers to pull all of the metal from that man. What did you think of then?"

Numb by the memories, Erik slowly shook his head. "I just wanted my son to be safe."

Charles nodded. "And you wanted to retaliate against the man who had hurt him."

"Yes."

"Go there," Charles said. "To that day. Feel what you felt at that pond—how furious you were against the Hound. How much you loved Peter."

Erik stared at nothing, trying to remember.

"Would you mind?" Charles offered, wiggling his fingers towards his temple. "If I…"

Erik shook his head.

Charles pressed his fingers towards his head. With a slow blink, he entered Erik's mind. He quickly rifled past the memories that flooded by and found the one he was looking for. He drew the images to the surface of Erik's mind, reminding him how close the Hound had been to crushing that boy into nothing. How much he loved his son.

With tears in both of their eyes, Charles dropped out of Erik's mind.

"You have a possessive power that no one can match," Charles said softly, looking into his eyes. "You can access it through your memories; you can remember what Shaw took from you. You can remember what you now have."

Erik looked past Charles, letting the stirred emotions sweep over his soul.

"Come on," Charles encouraged with a hand on his arm. "Let's try again."

With new determination, Erik turned back towards the satellite dish. A single, shaking hand stretched forth, pulling on the faraway metal. He held it, pulling and pulling as the dish began to groan. The satellite loudly protested as it shifted towards Erik. Erik's hand turned with it, turning it to face him completely.

Erik smiled in triumph before collapsing to the railing with laughter. Charles held onto him, laughing alongside.

The men held each other in a relieved delight, feeling like, together, they could face anything in the world.

 

* * *

 

_**October 28, 1962, North Salem, New York** _

And then they found Shaw. He had been using the nuclear sources in Cuba to further his abilities, and he had to be stopped.

Erik had had no choice but to leave his son at the mansion, in the hands of three, highly trained CIA operatives—not that Charles approved.

"I think you ought to stay here," Charles said heatedly. Standing in the foyer, the two mutants had been bickering about the matter for nearly ten minutes.

"I am not staying behind while my parents' murderer is finally brought to justice!" Erik barked.

"He will be caught with or without you!" Charles returned with a scowl. "I'm worried that you'll take things too far once we locate him, and we can't risk this."

"I know that!" Erik snapped. "And there is nothing you can do to stop me from being there, Charles."

"Think of Peter," Charles pleaded in a last-ditch effort. "You don't want him to stay behind with the CIA agents. He'd be safer—"

"You are not his father!" Erik shouted angrily, rattling the metal throughout the mansion like a shockwave.

And there it was. Charles blinked and forced his face into neutrality while the hurt washed over him.

Erik faltered a step back from the telepath, as if his mouth was a fired gun and he had been smacked with the recoil. He instantly regretted the statement entirely, making grief claw at his chest. "Charles… I didn't mean—"

"You're right," Charles cut him off in a calm voice. "You're free to make your own choices. And you'll be free to live with the repercussions of them."

Charles turned and headed out to the garage to board the jet without another word.

Erik stood in the foyer for a few moments, trying to regain his bearings as shock and self-hatred rolled through his limbs. He eventually managed to bark firm, sickened orders at the three CIA operatives before going to board the jet.

Because Erik had had no choice but to go as the X-Men went to meet Shaw. He had had no choice but to slice through Shaw's mind with the very coin he'd been tormented with as a boy. He had no choice but to kill Sebastian Shaw as Charles distantly raged and screamed about broken promises.

He had had no choice but to separate himself from those that claimed to be peaceful, hippy X-Men. He was a cold-blooded killer now, and he knew it. He was Magneto now, and he would create a Brotherhood of Mutants. He offered for anyone to join him. His eyes bore into Charles as Azazel, Riptide, and Angel did follow.

Erik had had no choice as Moira shot at him. He deflected the bullets as best he could; he had had no say in the matter as one lodged itself into Charles Xavier's spine. Even as Erik's shaking fingers pulled the bloodied bullet into his palm, he knew he was out of options.

He had had no choice but to leave.

 

* * *

 

_**October 29, 1962, North Salem, New York** _

He didn't want to be an X-Men anymore. He didn't want to feel anymore. During the entirety of the plane ride and the taxi ride, Erik told himself again and again that he hadn't meant for this to happen.

But what had he expected, when he walked onto that beach, knowing full well that he was to break Charles's promise?

He hadn't meant to break his spine. Had he meant to break his heart?

Erik marched in through the mansion's massive front entrance. He wasted no time in jerking the guns out of the CIA operatives' holsters and pistol-whipping them into unconsciousness.

As the men dropped to the ground, Erik distantly cursed himself for leaving his son in the hands of such worthless Homo sapiens.

"Dad?" Peter stood half-way down the stairs, staring at the dropped men anxiously. He looked up to his father then and noticed the weird, metal helmet he wore.

"Grab your things," Erik said. He marched up the stairs, straight past Peter, and headed for his room.

"Where's everybody?" Peter asked with a frown. He trailed after his father and didn't go to grab his things.

Erik slammed his clothes into the suitcase stashed under his bed. Each bed had one, in case they needed to make a speedy escape.

Erik hadn't expected to need this escape.

"Where's Uncle Charles?" Peter asked.

Erik's wince was involuntary. "Pietro, go grab your belongings. Pack them in the suitcase underneath your bed."

"Dad—"

" _Do it!_ "

Peter recoiled at his tone and backed out of the room with tear-filled eyes. Erik's shattered heart fractured further at the sight.

Erik took a breath to try to collect himself before shoving more clothes into the suitcase.

The Lehnsherrs were gone before the CIA operatives awoke and, more importantly, before Charles returned to the empty mansion.


	3. Act 2: An Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up; this is only gettin' worse. (I mean this with loving affection. Please read.)

**This act is rather long (sorry!), so I'll post the final act next week to give y'all time to read.**

 

**ACT 2: An Absence**

 

_**November 1963, Western Michigan** _

"Eat," Erik commanded.

With his ever-present frown, Peter looked down at his bowl of stew. He slowly obeyed.

Erik went back to eating his own bowl. He had become worried about his son. Erik did all he could to get enough money to care for his son, but it didn't seem like enough; Peter's slim and healthy body had begun to wither.

Briefly, images of a healthy and happy Peter flitted through Erik's mind. It was Peter when they had lived at the mansion.

Peter had stopped asking when they were going back there months ago.

Peter knew that Charles had been injured and needed time alone to heal properly. He knew that he and Erik needed to move around so his father could attend to adult, mutant business. And that was all he knew.

"The school here's the worst one," Peter grumbled. "The kids are mean."

Erik blinked, a spoonful of stew halfway to his mouth. His son never liked his schools, but to say that this one was worse than the last hated five…

"Why don't I find you more books to read?" Erik offered instead. He wanted Peter to enjoy education. He wanted Peter to be happy.

Peter just stirred his stew.

Emma Frost barged into the crummy apartment unannounced.

Erik's eyes narrowed on her. "I saved you from that rotting prison cell; you could display some manners."

She looked him over carelessly. "I'll show my manners the same day you show some faith." Her eyes had zeroed in on Erik's metallic helmet, believing that Erik was incapable of trusting her powers.

Erik didn't respond. While it was a bonus that Emma couldn't infiltrate his head, there was another reason that Erik only ever took the helmet off to shower and comb his hair.

"We caught wind of a possible need for mutants," she announced. Her distrusting eyes flicked over Peter.

"What?" Erik pressed, drawing her attention back to himself.

"There have been murmurings about an assassination attempt on JFK," she said. "Snipers on every corner when he rolls into Texas."

Erik ground his teeth. This could be good publicity. If the world saw mutants saving a good leader's life, the Homo sapiens would stop their festering resentment; mutants would band together in comradery.

"When?"

"At the end of the month," Emma said with a shrug. "Whenever Kennedy gets to Dallas."

"Tell Azazel and Angel and Riptide that we leave first thing in the morning," Erik stated.

Emma gave a nod of the head, and turned. Erik didn't see the gleam in her eyes as she sauntered out of the apartment.

Erik looked down at his eating son. "Would you like to explore Texas with me?"

 

* * *

 

_**November 22, 1963, Dallas, Texas** _

"We, in this country, in this generation, are—by destiny rather than by choice—the watchmen on the walls of world freedom," the President said to the people of Dallas. "We ask, therefore, that we may be worthy of our power and responsibility, that we may exercise our strength with wisdom and restraint, and that we may achieve in our time and for all time the ancient vision of 'peace on earth, good will toward men.' That must always be our goal, and the righteousness of our cause must always underlie our strength. For as was written long ago: 'except the Lord keep the city, the watchmen waketh but in vain.'"

And once the President had concluded, he chose to ride in his car with the top down.

When the bullets went flying, Erik was waiting. He stopped them. All of them.

Except for one—he felt it as it soared for the secretly mutant president. Erik reached out, and the bullet bent. But Erik was too late. Erik had missed _one_.

But that was all it took.

As JFK's body sagged into the car, the street and surrounding buildings erupted into chaos. People ran, screaming. And Erik, stupid, stupid Erik, was overlooking the event from a central building's balcony. He had wanted to ensure that people witness the good that mutants could do, the good men they could save.

There had been too many witnesses.

Erik ran as fast as he could out of the building, blending into the crowds of pushing people the second he could.

As he rode out the wave of the crowd, Erik could have sworn he saw vibrant blue scales shift on a man. But they were gone in a split second, and Erik was shoved along.

 

* * *

 

_**December 1963, Somewhere in Minnesota** _

Peter wondered when he was going back to school. He'd been out of school for almost a month. But then they'd gone and toured Dallas, and then his dad forced them to ride a whole bunch of trains to Minnesota.

Minnesota was boring. Minnesota in December was _cold._ Usually, his dad moved them so he could meet with his mutant colleagues like Emma and Angel. But Peter hadn't seen any of them since Texas. So what was the point of stupid Minnesota?

Peter was glad that his dad hadn't put him in school here; the kids here probably sucked just as much as those bullies in Michigan.

So Peter didn't ask about school.

He picked up a worn edition of Jack London's _The Call of the Wild_ and read.

An hour later, his father came into the rundown, one-bedroom apartment. Erik's eyes swept over his son before he barely smiled. "Reading that old novel again?"

Peter shrugged and continued. He had nothing else to read; all of their other books had been left behind in the past month's move.

Erik walked over and sat on the edge of the large, shared mattress. He tugged off his worn shoes.

Peter could smell the alcohol. His eyes looked over his dad, but the adult didn't seem drunk.

"Are you hungry, son?" Erik asked, looking tiredly to the boy.

Hesitantly, Peter nodded. He didn't like complaining about the constant hunger; there was never enough to eat, and it only made his dad feel bad.

Erik got up and rustled a grocery bag off the kitchen counter. He pulled out grapes and peanut butter and bread and jelly. Erik smiled sadly as Peter set the book down and eagerly approached. He made the child three sandwiches and himself one.

As they sat, quietly munching in the cold apartment, Peter pointed to the menorah by the window. "We gotta light it!"

Erik glanced to the setting sun and nodded. He shoved the last of his sandwich into his mouth and went to grab the matches.

With only the light of the match and the final rays of the sun, the two knelt down in front of the menorah. Erik recited the blessings as Peter attentively listened, and the second candle was lit.

As the menorah burned brightly in the window, Erik grabbed more candles off of the kitchen counter and lit them. The two were making due without electricity in this rundown apartment.

Peter looked longingly out the window, his face illuminated by the menorah's flames. He always liked Hanukkah. He even remembered, two years ago, when Erik and Charles had given him a present on each day of the religious celebration. Those were the days that Peter could run around outside without Erik's frantic worrying.

"Would you like me to read to you?" Erik suggested when he caught Peter staring longingly out the window.

Peter blinked in surprise. His father's previous routine made rare appearances these days. But Peter turned to his father and nodded.

Erik picked up the discarded _The Call of the Wild_ and positioned the glowing candles around them to light the words. "Where'd you leave off?" He took a seat beside his son on the floor.

Peter shrugged. "I've read it ten times."

Erik glanced at him before focusing on the book. He turned to a random page and began to read.

And half an hour later, Erik was still reading aloud. " _'So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you._ '" He blinked at the truth in those words. He looked down to see his son's reaction, but the silver-haired boy was leaning against his arm, fast asleep.

Erik ran a hand through his son's light hair. He hated this life for Peter. He wished for the days when Peter could explore freely, and when food wasn't scrapped together from hustled money. Some days, Erik wondered if Peter would be better off with a better family. Without him.

But whenever Erik thought of his love for his own parents, he knew how horribly wrong that situation would be. He would rather face the devil himself than lose his only remaining family. Erik Lehnsherr would give everything he was to keep Pietro.

Erik raised the book again and continued. " _'Well, he would see to it that he never went down.'_ "

 

* * *

 

_**End of January, 1964, Perrysburg, Ohio** _

Erik had found work here in a metal-welding factory. Erik had enrolled Peter in a small school here, and the kids were actually being considerate to the too-young, too-fast, too-silver-haired child. The Lehnsherrs had an apartment with heat and electricity.

But Erik couldn't very well wear the helmet in public eye; it screamed "Magneto: Assassinator of Presidents." So Erik left the armor at home while he worked and ran errands, hoping to God every day that Charles's mental voice would never try to locate him.

Charles never tried—but Emma Frost succeeded.

The day she dragged him to meet at the edge of Maumee River was the day their lives forever changed.

The white, crisp snow flurried around them as the noonday sun tried to shine through the cloud layer. The river's edges were frozen over, leaving only the center running dark, bone-chilling water.

"You have to turn yourself in, Magneto," Emma plainly stated after minutes of build-up.

Erik, wearing the metal helmet, turned his steely gaze on the woman. She may have been bundled up in layers of fur coats, but he very much doubted the weather would affect a heart as cold as hers.

"We can't keep being at the mercy of government officials because our _fellow mutant_ is an assassin," she hissed over the frosty wind.

Erik's jaw was tight. He didn't know what to say. This was an unfair situation for everyone, but to have his fellow mutants _betray_ him? Blame him and force him to take the fall for _their_ plans?

"You know I can't, Emma," Erik said, his voice just loud enough to not be drowned out by the wind. "I have Pietro to concern myself with."

"Not for much longer."

Erik's blood ran as cold as the river water.

Emma knew she had him by the balls, and she took a brazen step towards him. "The Brotherhood has carried on without you. And we've decided to offer you an ultimatum: take responsibility for your carelessness or we will kill Peter."

" _Don't you dare threaten my son._ " Erik's voice had gone lower, dangerous.

"It's not a threat," she said easily. "It's a fact."

Erik's rage churned in his chest, rolling into his hands. His arm shot out, and Emma became suspended in the air. Through watering, wind-bitten eyes, Erik glared at the woman threatening the only piece of life he cared for. He knew he could access that part of him that pulled the very iron from her veins.

Emma writhed against his hold, but she kept her cold gaze on him. "You can try to kill me, but it won't change a thing. If I don't kill Peter, someone else will!"

Erik's vengeful, trembling hand closed a fraction of the way, and Emma twitched in silent agony. And then, with an angry breath, he relaxed his hand and let her drop to the snow.

Emma laid there, panting and gingerly touching her bleeding nose. Eventually, she turned her head up to look at him and say, "There are mutants that are sick and tired of being tormented because of your mistakes. They're lined up to make you pay if you don't come forward."

"I am not responsible," Erik growled.

Emma looked almost amused. "You think those mutant-cursing government officials give a damn about innocence?" She shook her head slowly. "They needed someone to blame, and you were all-too-willing to play the part."

"I was trying to _save_ —!"

"You manipulated the bullets! People saw you, and then you _ran!_ "

As Erik's rage began to subside, panic rose. "I… I can't abandon my son."

Emma didn't move. "You can try to move, Magneto. You can leave the country, and you can change your goddamn names. But you can't hide Peter forever."

Erik couldn't respond. He stumbled back a step and then another. He was entirely numb as horrifying images of Peter swirled his mind. He turned and trudged through the snow, right past his workplace to his apartment.

 

* * *

 

_**February 1, 1964, Perrysburg, Ohio** _

Erik wasn't sure what to do. He'd spent the whole night wearing his metal helmet, trying to think of the options for him and Peter. Because leaving his son behind—not an option. Letting his son become mutilated or worse by his enemies—never an option.

Eventually, he decided they would do exactly what Emma warned them not to: Erik would drop Peter off at school, and then he would go home and pack of their things. They would leave for Poland the next day.

As the two walked down the street in the frosty air, Erik kept a tight hold on Peter's hand.

"You don't have to hold my hand anymore," Peter said, giving his worried father a sympathetic smile. "I'm not a baby."

Erik glanced at his son but didn't say a word.

Peter rolled his eyes and let his hand be held. Things were going good for them, and if his dad holding his hand was the worst of his troubles, life was pretty good.

Unfortunately for them, this wasn't the worst of their troubles.

"We're leaving tomorrow," Erik said suddenly as they neared the gates of the elementary school.

Peter skidded to a halt and looked up at his father. "What?!"

Erik kept his face plain. "We're moving. To Poland."

Peter's eyes widened as his shoulders slumped. "But I like it here! I have friends! And we have a home! I don't wanna move!"

Pieces of Erik's heart chipped. "We don't have a choice, Pietro. I like it here, too, but—"

_BANG! BANG!_

Erik had been so focused on consoling his son that he hadn't been able to sense the soaring metal. Peter had been so desolate that he hadn't had the focus to dodge the bullets. One of the bullets skimmed past Erik's ear while the other found purchase in the edge of Peter's shoulder.

Erik instinctively curled himself around Peter while the surrounding schoolchildren shrieked and darted for the school building.

Peter sobbed in pain as he grabbed his bleeding arm.

Erik used his adrenaline-heightened powers to seek out the metal gun, turn it on the hands holding it, and fire.

_BANG!_

Peter jumped with a scream, and Erik held him closer.

"It's over," Erik assured him in hushed Polish. "It's over."

As the father held his trembling child close in his coat, he dimly registered cooling blood trickle down his neck from his ear. He made himself focus on pulling aside Peter's wool coat to check his wound. He relaxed when he saw the bullet had simply skimmed the shoulder, leaving a flesh wound.

"Let's go," Erik said, picking the boy up into his arms.

Peter continued to cry as he hugged his father.

Erik carried his son back to the apartment, and he kept his face stoic. He didn't want anyone to see how deeply he was affected by all that had happened. He didn't want anyone to see how he was memorizing every detail of Peter's small body hugging his. Because this would be the last time he had this gift.

Because, to ensure his son's safety, Erik was going to have to leave him.

 

* * *

 

_**February 4, 1964, Upstate New York** _

Erik tied Peter's scarf.

"We're not gonna live here, are we?" the child asked, looking around the dingy, abandoned warehouse.

Erik almost smiled. "No, we're not." He finished the knot and then tugged on Peter's coat to secure it, careful of the stitches in the small shoulder.

Erik tried not to think about how he had had to stitch together that gaping wound. Or how Peter had sobbed, begging him to stop. Or how time seemed to move much slower for the boy, drawing out the necessary pain.

"Good because this place is the pits."

As Erik stood up, Peter sat on his suitcase and swung his feet. Erik stared at him. How long until he could see his favorite person again? Would he ever be able to see Pietro again?

"Am I gonna go to a new school?" Peter looked up innocently, entirely unaware of what was on the verge of this moment.

"Yes, you will, Pietro." Erik's eyes pricked with tears. He blinked them away and then turned. "I need to go make a call. Stay here."

Peter nodded as the man strode out of the large, cement room and into a hallway.

Erik took a deep breath and let it out. He then took off his metal helmet and closed his eyes. He let himself focus before mentally calling out, _Charles?_

He waited. No response.

_Charles._

He waited. And he was about to try again when—

_Erik._

Erik's heart stuttered at hearing that voice so clearly in his mind. He floundered for a short moment before thinking, _Thank you. For… responding to me._

There was a pause before Charles thought, _What is it, Erik?_

Erik swallowed. _I… have no choice but to ask a favor of you._

_Life is full of choices. Pick another—one that doesn't concern me._

_Please_ , Erik thought desperately. _Please. It's Pietro._

_He's your son, Erik._

Erik winced but pressed, _Please, Charles. You're the only one… I am so sorry. Sorry cannot suffice for the wrongs I have committed—_

_What's wrong with Peter?_

_I,_ Erik thought, _am about to do something remarkably stupid. And I'll need you to look after him after it's all over._

There was a beat of silence before Charles burst, _I am in a_ _ **wheelchair**_ _because of you! I can't look after a child, let alone a speeding youngster! You'll just have to find someone else—_

 _You're the only one he has left._ Erik's soul felt fractured at the news of Charles's paralysis, at the predicament he was facing with his son. It was as if his very core had been shattered into thousands of jagged pieces and then sloppily reassembled, letting the serrated edges slice him with every breath.

_He doesn't have me._

Erik looked to his snow boots in desperate agony. _If there were any other way, Charles, I would have followed it. I never wanted to drag you back into our lives._

_And I never wanted to be dragged out of them in the first place._

Erik wasn't sure how to respond to that.

 _Why,_ Charles demanded. _What on God's green earth are you convinced that you must do to drive away your son?_

_The world believes that I shot the president._

_Yes, I am quite aware._

_I'm answering for my crimes._

Charles's voice became unsure and wary. _So you truly were the culprit._

Erik wasn't sure how to respond to that.

Sirens wailed distantly.

 _Please,_ Erik thought desperately. _I will ask nothing of you again if you would just please look after Pietro. I don't even have that right, but I must ask you still._

_Erik, I can't just replace—_

_You are everything good, Charles,_ Erik thought. _Pietro needs you._

_Erik…_

_In Finis, about a half hour from you, there is an abandoned warehouse. It's on the corner of Dorcha and Vale*. Pietro will wait for you there._

_Don't do this, Erik,_ Charles weakly begged. _I—_

Erik shoved his head back into the metal helmet, drowning out the telepath's pleas. He felt water drip from his nose, and he gingerly touched underneath his eyes. Tears were running down his cheeks.

The sirens drew closer.

Erik geared his soul back up for one final task. One final, impossible task.

He marched back into the large, concrete room.

Peter looked up. "Did you call your friend?"

Erik felt sick. He swallowed against his thick throat and managed, "Yes. I did." He knelt down in front of his son and held up Peter's bracelet-bound wrist. "Do you remember the day I gave you this?"

"Yeah."

"And I told you that I would always be able to locate you with it," Erik reminded. Peter nodded, so Erik continued, "When you look at this link, know that I am thinking of you every minute. And when you touch it, I'll know you're thinking of me, too."

Peter gave him a curious look, not understanding the dire situation. "Dad, are you crying? Did you get hurt?"

He absentmindedly wiped at his tears and shook his head. "Pietro, I'm going to have to go away for a while."

Peter frowned. "How long?"

"Indefinitely."

Peter thought about that. "Can't I just come with you?"

"You're going to go with Charles."

" _Uncle Charles?_ "

Erik gave a nod. "He's going to look after you from now on, Pietro."

Peter's frown colored his face. "But I don't wanna live with Uncle Charles. I wanna stay with you!"

Erik's jaggedly mosaic soul groaned under his grief. "I… I do, too, Pietro. But this is how it must be."

"No!" Peter scowled. "You always bring me! Take me with you!"

The sirens were too close.

Erik stood and held his son in for a hug. "Remain here. Charles will be here for you as soon as he can." He kissed the top of that silver hair. He memorized the smell and the warmth of his child.

And then he snaked a metal pipe from the wall around Peter's wrist.

Erik stepped back and turned away.

Peter hopped off his suitcase, realizing that they had only brought _his_ suitcase. He went to follow his father, but his arm pulled. He turned and saw the pipe tethering him to the wall. He brought his betrayed eyes to his father.

"I love you, Pietro," Erik told him over his shoulder. "No matter what lies the world will feed you, know that I would let it all burn for you."

Peter tugged on the pipe. "Dad, let me out. I don't wanna stay here! I wanna stay with you!"

With leaden feet, Erik walked out of the warehouse.

"Dad! _Dad!_ Papa!"

Erik's boots crunched into the snow. He was torn between trying to drown out his child's cries and trying to memorize the last sounds of his child's voice.

" _Don't leave me!_ Dad!"

Erik's tears flowed freely as he walked to the clearing of trees. He could see the five police cars' red and blue lights whirring. This where he had told the police to expect him.

"Please! I wanna stay with you! _DAD!_ "

Erik marched those final few steps before entering the clearing. Here, he was far from the abandoned warehouse and surrounded by screaming sirens. He couldn't hear his son anymore.

"PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!" Numerous guns trained on him—as if they had the power to take a metal-manipulator's life.

Erik's tears were thick and hot, burning his cold cheeks. He couldn't hear his son anymore. He couldn't hear Pietro. He would never hear his son again.

"HANDS! IN THE AIR—NOW!"

Erik raised his hands and sank his knees into the snow-smothered ground. He wanted the cold to claw its way into his throat and choke him. He wanted the bullets of the guns surrounding him to stand a chance.

He wanted nothing but his son.

"You are under arrest!" a police officer spat as he yanked Erik's hands behind him into handcuffs. "You have the right to an attorney…" Erik drowned him out because it didn't matter. He simply didn't care about his fate anymore.

Just under the sound of the cars' sirens, a child distantly wailed, and Erik Lehnsherr let himself be arrested by the New York state police.

 

* * *

 

"This is the warehouse, Hank," Charles confirmed, rolling his wheelchair out of the back of the van.

Hank shut the car doors and looked at the abandoned building with a squinted eye. "What exactly are we doing here, Professor?"

Charles gave him a look; he didn't appreciate the title, considering the Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters wasn't set to open for another seven months.

"We're assisting an old friend," Charles finally answered as he wheeled himself into the warehouse.

Hank followed and looked around the vast, empty space. There was nothing here but dirty concrete floors, random piping across the walls, and lines of steel crates.

"Where _is_ this friend?" Hank asked dubiously as he followed Charles around. "And who is he?"

Charles rolled up to the far, back wall. He stared at the bent piping, how it curved into a small circle—the perfect size for a child's wrist. Charles looked to the floor and saw scuff marks and a disruption of the settled dust. He realized the markings fit the size of one of Erik's suitcases.

Charles glanced around the warehouse then, probing the air with his mind. He found no presences other than Hank. Charles's heart sank in worry. Where had the boy gone?

"Professor?"

Charles looked up at him. "If you insist on calling me that, please at least wait until the fall."

Hank grinned. "We've already received all the school's approvals and the students' letters of intention. As far as I'm concerned, you're a professor."

Charles rolled his eyes, but a small part of him glowed at the thought of his dreams nearing closer.

"What are we doing here, Charles?" Hank asked sincerely.

Charles sighed and gripped his armrests. "As it appears, nothing at all. I need to go back to the mansion and access Cerebro."

Hank accepted that answer and steered his friend back to the van.

 

* * *

 

_**Later, Outside of Albany, New York** _

Azazel drove the jet black car through the night.

"Where are we going?" Peter asked, worry laced through his voice. He had just wanted to return to his dad. He hadn't seen him since that warehouse, and he was getting really, really worried.

Emma Frost turned around in the passenger's seat and gave him a smile. "We're taking you to your new home."

Peter frowned and looked out the window. His dad had told him to wait for Uncle Charles. But when his dad's friends showed up at the warehouse and transported him out of that handcuffing pipe, Peter assumed they would lead him back to his dad.

But then they'd gone to the mansion. And Peter had been forced to sit in the car while Emma and Azazel went in and came out thirty minutes later. They drove off without saying a word about it.

"I thought I was supposed to stay at the mansion," Peter said.

"Charles isn't very happy with your father after everything that's happened," Emma told him sympathetically. "I went in to see if he still wanted to look after you, but he didn't."

Peter's heart clenched. "Uncle Charles… said I couldn't go back?"

Emma's face became very sad. "I'm so sorry, darling. But your father was a true friend and a strong leader; I will do everything I can to make sure you're cared for while he's gone."

Peter sank into the leather seat. "Wh-where's my dad?"

"He's taking care of mutant matters. And he's going to be gone for a long, long time, darling."

Peter swallowed and wrapped his arms closer to himself. "How long?"

Emma's smile was sad, and then she turned back in her seat. Over her shoulder, she call sweetly, "Just try to get some sleep back there, darling. We'll be at your new home soon."

Peter's frown deepened, but he slowly lowered his head to rest against the car door.

 

* * *

 

_**February 20, 1964, Jacksonville, Florida** _

Peter had spent over two weeks living in luxury. Snow was nonexistent in the tropical paradise Emma had brought him to. Peter Lehnsherr had plush beds and warm showers and electricity that never shut off. And Emma never made him go to school.

But he missed his dad.

"Did you hear from my dad yet?" Peter asked as soon as Emma walked into his personal hotel suite. He zoomed around the room, waiting an eternal second for the answer.

"Peter, I think it's time we talked," Emma said softly, taking a seat at the mahogany table. She patted a leather-lined seat beside her.

Peter was sitting on it in the next second. He blinked up at her with large, trusting eyes.

"Your father…" Emma sighed and looked down sadly. "He's not coming back, Peter."

Peter leaned back with a frown. "What do you mean? You said he'd be back as soon as he dealt with some mutant stuff. You said you were just looking out for me until he came back."

"I know," she said with a pitiful gaze. "I was trying to protect you, Peter. I was hoping that your father would change his mind and return for you, but I don't think he will. I'm so sorry."

Peter jumped to his feet. "What do you mean?! Where is he? He wouldn't just leave me!"

Emma held his small hands between her pale ones. "He did, darling. He's devoted his life to other mutants, and… and he isn't coming back."

Peter shook his head in disbelief and pulled his hands away. Because he believed his dad wouldn't just leave him. His dad wouldn't just pick a new mutant family and _forget_ about him… right?

"This doesn't change anything for us," Emma said with an earnest gaze. "Azazel and Angel and Riptide and I—we all like having you around. We appreciate your mutant abilities. We'll take care of you."

Peter scowled and back away. "No… No, I've—I've gotta find my dad. He, he told me that he'd always take care of me." His hand unthinkingly grabbed onto the metallic bracelet on his wrist.

Emma glanced at it before looking to him. "He's gone, darling."

"No!" Peter's eyes pricked with tears, and his hands began to vibrate. "I… We gotta look for him! He wants me with him! I want my dad!"

Emma's expression was tragic. "You can search for him, if you would like. You can scour the ends of the earth, but he won't let you find him if he doesn't want you to."

Peter scowled at the elegant carpet before deciding. "I'm going to find him."

She gave him a sympathetic smile. "Alright, Peter. Just know that you'll always have a home with us." She smoothly rose from the chair and fished a business card out of her pocket. She extended it to him, and he took it with shaky hands. "It's our number—in case you ever want to come back."

Peter looked down at the neatly printed telephone number. The pristine card had no other writings. He stuffed it into his jeans pocket before turning to pack.

To him, it didn't matter that he had Emma's promises for a new, comfortable life. He just wanted his dad—and he would find him.

 

* * *

 

_**February 23, 1964, U.S. Penitentiary, Marion**, Illinois** _

This was a one-time deal.

In a private trial, Erik Lehnsherr had pled guilty to first degree murder and assassination. He was sentenced to serve two consecutive life sentences without parole. He was permitted one visitation before his sentencing commenced.

So Charles wheeled himself into the federal penitentiary because of just that—he would never have to see Erik Lehnsherr again.

After a thorough search of his person and chair, Charles was brought to a small, concrete room. There was one metal table bolted to the floor and a single folding chair. Charles rolled up to the table and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Charles held himself straight in his chair, only allowing his eyes to move and track Erik's movements as the prisoner entered.

An underfed Erik somberly walked into the room. His uniform was dull gray and tattered. His ankles and wrists were handcuffed. His bleary eyes widened into alertness at the sight of Charles.

"Sit down," the guard barked at Erik, shoving him into the folding chair across the table. Erik obeyed, keeping his eyes on Charles. The guard walked out, leaving the two alone.

The silence was thick. Charles wasn't sure what to say. He wanted to curse his friend for sending him to this wheelchair. He wanted to spit on the lover that broke his promises and left.

"You came." Erik's dry lips barely moved to release that whisper.

"You gave them my number," Charles responded.

"I didn't think you would come." Erik's bloodshot eyes were absorbing every inch of the telepath, making Charles want to fidget.

"They mentioned that this would be your only visitation for your next two life sentences, so I thought I'd acquiesce."

Erik gave a small nod of gratitude.

"I tried to learn what I could about your trial," Charles said. "But you pled guilty and requested to represent yourself. Tell me—have you finally developed a conscience for the lives you take, or was this a one-time occurrence?"

Erik had the decency to wince. "It's not how it appears, Charles."

Charles humorlessly laughed. "First degree murder and assassination—that's rather difficult to misconstrue."

"Why don't you just worm your way into my mind then?" Erik challenged through gritted teeth.

"I told you that I don't enter into people's minds," Charles said with a glare. "And I don't go back on my promises."

Erik's mouth twisted into a tight line.

Charles bitterly shook his head. "You could have saved the world, Erik. _We_ could have."

There was a pregnant pause as Erik searched for a response. Eventually, he just asked, "How is he?"

Guilt crawled through Charles's chest like ice. "I wouldn't know."

Erik's eyes locked onto him. "What do you mean?"

"He wasn't there, Erik," Charles stated. "He was gone by the time I arrived at that warehouse."

The metal table began to thrum with energy.

" _Where is he?_ "

Charles narrowed his eyes. "I wish I knew."

"Cerebro?"

"It was demolished the same day. Your friends must have gone in and stolen the pieces while I went to save your son."

The table was vibrating; the handcuffs' chains clinked.

" _I did all of this for him!_ " Erik roared with a furious gaze. "You were—"

"This was a courtesy call," Charles spat back, a spiteful fire consuming the cold guilt he'd felt moments before. "I'm still trying to locate your abandoned child while you waste away within these walls for whatever purposes you've told yourself!"

The door slammed inwards and armed guards poured in as the metal in the room groaned and warped. Erik screamed to the concrete ceiling, sending the aching sound swirling around the men.

Charles held up his hand and focused on taming Erik's mind into sleep.

Erik slumped to the bent table, entirely unconscious.

Charles gave him a final, parting look. It hurt to know that this would be the final time he got to see the man he loved. It hurt to look at the man who betrayed and used him.

"He'll need a prison _without_ metal," Charles told the guards as he rolled himself out of the room. "Otherwise, he'll tear this place apart the moment he wakes up."

As the guards looked to each other in a panic, Charles rolled himself out to Hank and the jet.

 

* * *

 

_**February 24, 1964, Norfolk, Virginia** _

Peter had used most of the cash left in his suitcase to buy bus tickets to make it this far north. He'd used the rest of the money to buy food.

But Peter had officially run out of money.

Peter looked around at the small beach city. He figured this place would be as good as any to begin his search.

So he spent the whole day scouring the city, asking any adult that would listen if they had seen a man

"With brown hair and blue eyes, and he's tall, and he likes frowning but he's a really good dad—"

"Beat it, kid," the butcher behind the meat counter barked. "If ya ain't buyin', I don't need ya in 'ere yabberin'." He used his cleaver to gesture to the door.

Peter soberly walked out into the chilled night. As the dark wind swept past him, he held his coat and scarf tighter around himself. He wished he could go back to that day that his father had tied them around him.

Peter walked through the snow-dusted streets. He was cold. He was tired. He was hungry—but when wasn't he? He passed by a bakery, and the warmth and smells called to him. Before he knew what he was doing, he was inside the store, relishing in the heated space.

"We're closed," the woman behind the counter called out as she counted money. She glanced up and then did a double-take. "Oh. Are you doin' alright, sweetheart?"

Peter nodded and stepped up to the counter. He had his spiel memorized, so he began, "I'm looking for my dad. He has—"

The calendar nailed to the wall behind the woman caught his eye. Each day of the month was X-ed out, all crossed as past until today: February twenty-fourth.

Peter blinked. It was February twenty-fourth.

"I haven't seen any daddies lookin' for their kids," the baker said, her gaze full of genuine concern. "Did you want me to try callin' somebody?"

Peter's hand touched his bracelet as he shook his head. His dad wouldn't forget today. He… he wouldn't forget about Peter on this day.

"You sure?" the baker pressed. "I could see if a policeman could help—"

"No, that's OK," Peter said. His dad had taught him to be cautious of cops; they don't like mutants. Peter's gaze drifted to the display case of breads.

The baker's eyes followed his hungry gaze, and she smiled. "Here—on the house." She fished out a few baguettes and handed them to the boy. As he hesitantly accepted, she explained, "I have to throw out the food after I close up anyways."

"Thank you," he said, biting into one of the breads eagerly.

She smiled. "You sure there's no one I can call for you?"

He shook his head and walked out the door, calling, "Thanks for the bread."

Peter walked back down the dark streets, going back the way he had come. He finished two of the three loaves before he ended back up at the bus station. He found his suitcase where he had stashed it in a supply closet and then plopped it onto the cement ground.

He bit into the last of the bread and sat on the suitcase to assess his situation.

His dad had left. Emma said he didn't want Peter anymore.

His dad knew that today was his birthday. His dad had done nothing to seek him out.

The only conclusion that Peter could draw is that Erik truly didn't want Peter around.

Peter frowned and finished off the bread. He tried to think of what he could say or do to convince his dad to let him stay. But… but there was nothing. If his dad didn't even care about Peter's birthday, then…

 _Birthdays are stupid anyways,_ Peter thought to himself. _I don't want one anymore._

A distant church bell chimed, signaling it to be ten o'clock.

Peter sighed and settled into the warmth of his coat and the cushion of his suitcase. This would be his bed tonight. And as Peter closed his eyes, he wrapped a hand around his metal bracelet and fell asleep humming _Happy Birthday_.

In a bunker underneath the Pentagon, someone softly sang the very same song.

 

* * *

 

_**March 1964, Richmond, Virginia** _

Peter plopped onto the public bench and took a large bite of his roast beef sandwich. Before he even finished chewing, he stuffed the sandwich into his mouth and speedily finished it off. He leaned back with a sigh; he was _still_ hungry.

And tired. Peter hadn't been able to sleep well the night before—he had weird dream after weird dream, all involving Charles Xavier. Peter hadn't even seen his pseudo-uncle in years.

Emma's calling card hung heavily in Peter's pocket.

"You must've been hungry to eat that whole sandwich so fast," an elderly man said as he hobbled up to the bench.

"Yeah, I was hungry." Peter looked him over. The man wore a dark suit and a white, stiff collar. The old man reminded him of a Jewish rabbi.

The man grinned and lowered himself down beside Peter. "Are you waiting for someone?"

"Looking for someone," Peter corrected.

The man nodded. "Would you like to come inside, young man?"

Peter looked over his shoulder to where the man was indicating. A large, towering building stood tall, a giant cross lining the front. "Oh. No, thanks."

"It's a bit cold out here," the man noted.

Peter nodded. He'd been cold for almost three weeks now.

"Well, if you change your mind, you are more than welcome to come inside." The man smiled. He held out his hand. "I'm Father Gregory."

Peter gingerly shook the hand. "Peter."

Father Gregory's eyes lit up. "Ah! Just as Simon Peter of Bethsaida. He was a great saint, a man of incredible faith. I imagine that you are likewise, searching a city all by yourself."

Peter fidgeted. "I, uh, I'm Jewish."

Father Gregory chuckled. "Faith isn't exclusive to a singular religion." The old man struggled into a stand and added, "And neither is my offer; you may step inside, regardless of your faith."

Peter was tempted. The church's chimney billowed smoke from a warm fireplace. There might even be some food inside.

But Peter had a mission. "No thanks. I need to keep moving."

"Some bread, then?" the priest offered. "I have some inside that you could take on your way."

Peter didn't know about that. He wasn't exactly sure how sinning worked, but he knew that stealing was bad. And Peter had been stealing money for food for weeks now. He didn't think it'd be right to take something from a holy man.

"I, I'm OK," Peter rejected softly.

Father Gregory gave him a parting smile and nod before walking to the church. "Good luck on your search, Simon Peter!"

Peter stuffed his hands into his pockets and stood, not feeling very saintly at all. He readied his legs, about to shoot off to search the city further for any sign of his father.

_Peter…?_

Peter's muscles froze. He wondered if the old man had returned.

_Peter?_

Peter looked around. There was no one else here. He swallowed.

_Peter._

As Peter looked up, he realized that the voice was coming from inside of his mind. And, at the end of the secluded road, a man pushed another in a wheelchair. Peter squinted, trying to see. His eyes widened, trying to make sense…

 _Yes, I've become a bit hindered by my legs in recent years._ The familiar voice in Peter's mind sounded amused.

Tiredness be damned—Peter zipped up to the two men in a flash. In the next instant, he stood before Hank McCoy and Charles Xavier. He gaped in disbelief at the men, smiling happily when he realized they were real.

"Yes, we're quite real," Charles confirmed with a smile, "and I'm exiting your mind now—it whirls at unbelievable speeds nowadays."

" _Uncle Charles!_ " Peter shrieked happily. He clambered over the man's lap to squeeze him with a hug.

Charles hugged him back with a relieved smile.

"Hey, who did all the leg work to come and find Peter?" Hank prompted playfully.

"Hank!" Peter laughed as he jumped off of Charles to throw his arms around the tall mutant. After the hug, Peter pulled back with a questioning look. "You're not blue."

Hank grinned. "I've been developing a serum to subdue my… _ostentatious_ appearance."

Peter wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but he rolled with it. "What're you guys doing here?! Are you here to help me find my dad?"

Charles flicked a look to Hank before looking to the boy. "No, Peter. We're not. We're here, actually, to take you back to the mansion."

Peter stumbled a step backwards. "The… mansion?"

"Yes. We would like you to stay with us there."

"But…" Peter frowned. "But Emma said you didn't want me."

Charles's expression hardened. "What did Emma tell you?"

"That you were too busy with work to look after me," Peter mumbled.

Charles shook his head. "We've been trying to find you for weeks, Peter. We'd love nothing more than for you to come live with us."

"Is… is my dad there?" Peter's large eyes were filled with desperate hope.

Charles's eyes held an edge of pain as he answered, "No, Peter. He's turned himself over to the authorities. But he's asked me to look after you in his absence."

The news washed over Peter like a tidal wave. He'd been searching for his dad for so long, and this whole time he hadn't even been… "Oh. When is… he coming back?"

While Charles searched for the words, Hank stepped in. "Your dad's doing everything he can for you, Peter. He's just working with the government for right now."

Charles and Hank exchanged looks.

"Oh." Peter's shoulders slumped. He wasn't sure how long his dad would be gone for, but that sounded important. And like a long time.

"Is this where you've been?" Charles asked. "Did you come here from New York?"

Peter shook his head. "Emma helped me back when my dad… left. And then we went to Florida, but then I wanted to find my dad, so I started looking for him, and I thought I'd start by looking at the east coast states because that's where we've always lived, and then I took a bus until I ran out of money, and then I thought maybe I'd keeping searching around here anyways because there's a Petersburg and a Charles City around here, and I thought maybe my dad would like that."

Charles's swollen heart radiated through his eyes. "Oh, Peter. You've been out here, all alone and out of money, for _weeks?_ "

"I…" Peter bowed his head in shame and whispered, "I've been stealing money. For food and stuff."

Charles swallowed back his grief. "Peter, listen to me." He took the boy's hands into his own and waited until the meek gaze met his. "You are no longer alone. You will _never_ have to steal for food or money again. I promise you—I'll always look after you. From now on and always."

Those words stirred something in Peter's distant memories. Hesitantly, he checked, "Really?"

"I promise," Charles confirmed.

Peter's gaze flickered to Hank. "Can Hank live with us, too?"

Charles breathed a laugh. "I believe that can be arranged."

"But only because you asked, kid," Hank said with an impish smile.

Charles released Peter's hands and smiled softly. "Let's go home."

Two men began walking as the third rolled.

"Can we go get my stuff?" Peter asked. "I left it by the train station."

"Of course," Charles confirmed. "Although, I believe we'll have to get you some new clothes soon; your coat and pants looked a bit short."

"You're hitting a growth spurt, kid," Hank said.

"I'm seven now!"

The two adults chuckled, and Hank said, "You're practically an adult."

While Peter glowed at that statement, Charles threw Hank a thought about not giving the boy too many ideas.

"I'm so excited to see the mansion!" Peter gushed as the continued on. "That kitchen was so big, and the trees were so huge! Is my room still there? Well, I guess it would be unless you guys got hit by a tornado or something. You… you guys did get hit by a tornado or anything, right? I mean, that would suck, but that would be kind of cool…"

From the window of the Catholic church, Father Gregory stirred his tea and fondly watched as Peter was walked home.

 

* * *

 

_**March 1964, North Salem, New York** _

Peter had spent the first day back at the mansion sleeping, only waking up long enough to eat as many sandwiches as he could.

The following morning was bright and sunny, and Peter was excited to go explore the grounds once more.

"Perhaps, a doctor visit is in order first," Charles told the boy at the kitchen table.

Peter ate his fifth piece of toast and said around the food, "How come?"

"Because you haven't had a proper home in…" Charles trailed off, not sure how long it had been. "We should just make sure that you're perfectly healthy."

Peter frowned as he ate.

"Please?" Charles offered a smile. "For my sake?"

With a dramatic huff, Peter relented. "Fine."

Charles truly smiled then and mentally called for Hank to come to the kitchen.

"Do we have to go find a doctor?" Peter asked, starting on his sixth piece of toast.

"That's entirely up to you," Charles offered. "Hank has medical training, but if you would feel more comfortable with a—"

"I like Hank," Peter said, finishing the toast. He reached for a seventh piece, but his hand hesitated. His face grew a scowl.

"What's the matter?" Charles instantly became worried.

"I don't feel so good," Peter muttered, dropping his hand to his abdomen. He rubbed it and grimaced.

"You'll have to take it slower," Hank announced, stepping into the kitchen. "Your body isn't used to having so much food at once anymore."

"But I like food," Peter said. He couldn't believe it would betray him like that.

Hank grinned. "You can have more later. Let's head down to the lab so we can check out just how healthy you are."

Peter rolled his eyes but gingerly stood. "I'm the healthiest kid that ever lived. I never even get sick."

"I believe it."

As the two walked down to the basement, Charles rolled to follow.

"You guys have the lab down here still?" Peter asked, following Hank into the elevator.

Hank waited for Charles to roll all the way in before hitting the button. "We have _labs_ now."

"Labs?"

"One for genetic research," Charles answered. "One for Hank's engineering. And one for medical treatment."

"Neato." Peter grinned.

The elevator pulled to a stop and slid open for the men to exit.

"Come over here, and I'll take your vitals," Hank said, leading the boy into the med bay.

As Peter followed, his eyes drifted over to the doors of Cerebro. They were wildly bent, and wires hung loose around the entrance. "What happened to the thinking machine?"

The edge of Charles's mouth drifted upwards at the familiar name. "It was damaged over a month ago. Hank has been busy repairing it so that we could use it to find you."

Peter raised his eyebrows as Hank measured his height. "You found me with it?"

"It's not perfect yet," Charles said. "We're still missing pieces, which is why we had to contact you when your consciousness was in a relaxed state."

"You were in my dream!" Peter suddenly remembered.

Charles smiled. "I apologize for the intrusion."

As Hank led the boy to a scale, Peter mulled that over. "I thought I was just dreaming you. I didn't know that you guys were even trying to find me."

Charles's gaze became probing. "Did your father not tell you that I would take you in?"

"Yeah, he did," Peter said. He thought back to that day in February, and thick emotions swirled in his chest. "But when Emma got me out of that pipe, she took me here and she talked to you. And… and you didn't want me."

Charles clenched his jaw. "I will always want you to be a part of my life, Peter."

Peter's cheeks warmed. Hank led him up to an examination table.

"It's best to not trust Emma Frost or her friends," Charles said while Hank gathered some supplies. "They don't always have the best intentions."

Peter frowned. "My dad was their friend."

Charles wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"Alright, I'm going to listen to your breathing and heartbeat," Hank announced as he adjusted his stethoscope's headset. "Just breathe normally."

Peter nodded.

Hank lifted the boy's shirt, and Charles gasped. Each one of Peter's ribs was easily visible. His abdomen was sunken, and the boniness of his limbs took on new meaning. It was worse than when Peter's powers first began to manifest.

Hank cleared his throat, just as affected by the boy's malnutrition. He placed the chestpiece on Peter's chest and listened. He scribbled down some notes. He then had Peter take deep breaths, in and out, before scrawling on the sheet again.

Hank took off the stethoscope and lowered his patient's shirt. "Are you still feeling queasy?"

"Uh, not really," Peter said.

"Hungry?"

Peter thought about it and shrugged. He felt like he could eat something.

"I'm going to make you a protein shake," Hank said. "It'll help you grow stronger while your powers develop."

"OK. Can it be a chocolate one?"

Hank laughed. "I'll add chocolate syrup to it."

Peter grinned.

"How are your powers?" Hank asked as he helped the boy off the table.

"Fast."

Hank led him and Charles back to the elevator. "How fast can you go now?"

Peter shrugged. "Faster than the cars and buses."

Charles and Hank already knew that. Charles rolled into the elevator last and hit the button.

"How long can you move that fast for?" Hank pressed.

"I dunno," Peter answered easily. "I can usually run like that for a few minutes before I get tired."

Hank sagely nodded. "You'll have to show us later how fast you can go. I bet you're even more incredible than I remember."

Peter smiled bashfully at that.

The elevator dinged, and the three made their way to the kitchen. As Charles entertained the boy with their plans to open the mutant school in the fall, Hank made the protein shake.

"I added extra chocolate syrup, just to be on the safe side," Hank told him, pushing the tall glass towards Peter.

"Thanks!" Peter smiled and excitedly began drinking.

Charles gave Hank a private look and mentally asked, _What are your thoughts on his condition?_

 _He's malnourished,_ Hank mentally responded. _He's too short for his age, probably from months of not getting enough calories for all the energy he burns._

Charles frowned. _What do you suggest?_

 _We should feed him as many of these protein shakes as he'll eat, and give him as many meals as he can keep down._ Hank shrugged. _It'd help if he didn't use his powers for a few weeks, but I don't think we'll be very fortunate at enforcing that one._

"Are you guys talking in your heads?"

The men guiltily looked up to see Peter slurping the remnants of his shake and watching them with large eyes.

"Yes," Charles answered with a fond smile. "We were just discussing how fast you'll become if you drink a _lot_ of these shakes every day."

Peter nodded, entering a daydream about that fantasy. He wondered if he'd be able to outrun the jet.

"Peter, you know how you get tired after a few minutes of running?" Hank prompted. Peter nodded. "That's because you've been running around so fast that your body has lost a lot of its strength. If you want to be able to run for a _really long time_ , you'll need to eat a lot of food and not move fast unless you absolutely have to."

Peter scrunched up his face at that. "For how long?"

"A few weeks," Hank answered with a wince.

Peter slumped his shoulders. He loved moving fast. It made everything else move in slow motion which was _so cool_. But if he could hold off on running for right now, maybe he'd actually be able to outrun the jet…

"And while you recover," Charles interjected, "we can assess where you are in your scholastics."

Peter groaned. "But I already have school. I'm in second grade."

"But you're one of the brightest men I know," Charles told him conspiratorially. "And as one of the first pupils of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, you'll be able to learn at whatever pace you set for yourself."

Peter perked up. "So I don't have to go to third grade?"

"Well," Charles said, "not in the traditional sense. You will—"

" _Woohoo!_ " Peter exuberantly flew out of his seat and did an impossibly quick victory lap around the kitchen. He then froze in his running stance, remembering that he wasn't supposed to be running.

"We'll work on it," Hank said as the boy unhappily slumped onto a chair. "And it'll only be for a few weeks, I promise."

"And until that time," Charles said, wheeling out of the kitchen, "let's go assess your reading."

 

* * *

 

_**April 1964, North Salem, New York** _

Peter sat out under the shade of the large oak tree.

It didn't take Charles long to find him; he simply had to mentally sweep for that hurricane of a mind.

As Charles silently rolled up, he noticed how Peter sat: huddled around his knees, wearing a too-small suit coat over a recently bought button-up shirt and khakis. Peter had even tried slicking back his overgrown, gray hair with a wet comb. (Wayward strands still escaped his styling.)

It took once glance into the shade and one glimpse at Peter's projected feelings to know exactly why the boy was curled up on a spring morning.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Peter," Charles said softly as way of greeting.

Peter was frowning as he scrubbed at his wet eyes and nose. "Do you remember her?" Details of his third year of life were fuzzy.

"Yes," Charles said. "I remember your mother quite well."

Peter brought a finger down on the letters carved into the dark slab. The digit was deliberately unhurried, like a trickle of water. Charles realized how difficult it would be for this young mutant to move so slowly.

"Dad makes me wear nice clothes today," Peter said quietly. "He said it's to show her that we care and that we're thinking about her."

Charles's heart painfully swelled, as it always did when Erik Lehnsherr was brought into conversation. He cleared his thick throat and managed, "That's a touching sentiment. Your mother would appreciate it." Charles made a mental note to buy Peter a new suit jacket.

Peter's frown deepened, and he dropped his hand from the dark marble slab. "But Dad isn't even here. I thought he'd be back for me by now."

Charles closed his eyes. He and Hank had been trying for weeks to keep Peter's memories of his father untarnished while conveying that Erik was never coming back. So far, they'd struggled with the latter.

"He'd be here if he could," Charles said after a while.

Peter's shoulders slumped. "Is my dad in jail?"

"Yes, he is, Peter."

Peter didn't move. Charles wished he'd turn around and face him.

"Why did my dad go?"

"I don't know." Charles had been struggling with that question for a while.

"Is he… bad?"

"Bad…?" Charles wasn't sure what to make of that.

Peter turned around to sit cross-legged in front of Charles's wheelchair. His eyes were red, and his cheeks were blotchy. "That guy in that toy store. He said bad kids go to jail."

 _Oh, Peter._ Charles leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. "Peter, your father is not a bad man. I believe that—I truly do."

"But—"

" _But,_ " Charles continued, "he has made mistakes. He… is human."

Peter scrunched up his nose. "He's mutant."

Charles resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Erik's obvious indoctrination. "Yes. And humans and mutants alike make mistakes. Your father… is trying to make things right."

Peter thought about that before asking, "But when is he done? Is he gonna come back to live here?"

"I don't believe he will, Peter." Charles eyes displayed the grief of that truth.

Peter's lower lip trembled as he fingers sought out the refuge of his metallic bracelet. He turned back to face the gravestone before his tears fell.

"What do you think of when you remember your mother?" Charles asked gently.

"I dunno," Peter answered in a thick voice. "She, she was, um, nice. And she helped me find Dad."

"Would you like to see what I remember of her?"

Peter whirled around, almost desperate eyes beseeching the telepath. He nodded.

Charles smiled sorrowfully and extended a hand. Peter crossed the few steps to the man and let him touch the side of his face.

Suddenly, they weren't under a large oak tree on the Xavier Estate. They weren't grieving men. Peter was little more than a toddler, being chased by a giggling Magda Maximoff. Charles was a graduate student, smiling fondly as Magda recounted humorous details of her husband.

Magda held Peter's hand and walked him out to explore the mansion's grounds when the snow melted.

Magda read softly in Polish to her dozing child from the comfort of the plush armchair in Charles's study. Charles listened in as he worked at his typewriter.

Magda stirred a large bowl of batter, despite vomiting all day and chasing her boy out of trouble. She insisted that Charles taste one of Ukraine's famous desserts as payment for all that he had done for them, and she wasn't going to accept a refusal.

Magda thanked Charles day in and day out for looking for Erik, for supporting them when they had nothing, for caring for her son like he was his own.

Magda used the last of her breaths to ensure that Erik had his child.

Peter blinked away the final memory, realizing he was leaning against Charles's lap. Tears had run down his cheeks.

Charles let his own tears run. He smiled at Peter and ran a hand through his increasingly disheveled hair. "Your mother was an honorable woman. She was strong, and she was brave, and she wasn't afraid to put down her pride for those she loved."

Peter's tears flooded his vision.

"And she loved you very much," Charles assured him. "As does your father. And as do I."

Peter locked his arms around his acquired uncle. "I love you too, Uncle Charles."

Charles's smile was soft. He hooked a hand under the boy's knees and pulled him to sit across his lap. "I believe I still have a copy of your mother's favorite book," he said as he wheeled them back towards the mansion. "Although, it's Polish, and I've always been rusty with that language. Something along the lines of _Trudno Naturę Odmienić_ …? Either way, it translates to the age-old proverb 'what is bred in the bone won't come out of the flesh.' Or something along those lines."***

Peter threw his arm around Charles's shoulder and assured him, "Don't worry, Uncle Charles. I'll teach you to speak Polish _way_ better than that."

As Charles laughed his gratitude, Peter snuck a final look at the grave marker resting underneath the shade of a large oak tree.

 

 _Magda Lehnsherr Maximoff_  
_December 30, 1932 – April 24, 1960_  
_Beloved wife, mother, and friend_

 

 

* * *

 

_**August 1964, North Salem, New York** _

Cerebro was now fully repaired and operational. The mansion's grounds were perfectly groomed. The mansion itself sported a large number of furnished bedrooms and classrooms. Everything was coming along beautifully.

" _DIE, TRAITOROUS SCUM!_ "

Charles jolted at the loud, robotic voice. He looked down to see that the right wheel of his chair had become lodged on a very loud, very angry toy.

"Peter!" Charles called.

" _DIE, TRAITOROUS SCUM!_ "

Charles tried reversing his chair, but the toy had somehow lodged itself into the tracks of the wheel. He moved the chair's joystick, but the wheel was stuck on the toy.

" _DIE, TRAITOROUS SCUM!_ "

" _Peter!_ "

"Yeah?" Peter was suddenly in front of the telepath, looking completely innocent.

"What's the rule about your toys?" Charles asked knowingly.

"Help them take over the world with my mutant powers!" Peter shouted in an enthusiastic, gruff voice. He punched a fist into the air.

Charles was only distantly amused. "Peter."

With a relinquishing huff, Peter said, "To pick them up when I'm done playing with them."

Charles grinned and ruffled Peter's hair. "You may start with this one and then search the grounds for any other forgotten, wayward belongings."

Peter pulled the talking action figure from the chair's wheel and then gave his caregiver a look. " _The whole grounds?_ "

"The other students are arriving tomorrow. Besides," Charles said with a raised eyebrow, "aren't you the boy who said he loved to run at 'crazy-fast speeds' everywhere?"

Peter knew he was caught, so he held up his toy, made it shout " _DIE, TRAITOROUS SCUM!_ ", and then vanished out of sight.

Charles affectionately rolled his eyes.

"I know you're a replacement dad and all now, but you've really got to cool it on the parent talk. You sound exactly like your mother."

Charles looked up to see the blonde Raven stroll through the front door, bag over her shoulder. "Oh, yes. I guess I did resemble the one time she ever tried to parent me."

Raven smirked and dropped her bag to the floor so she could give her foster brother a hug. "It's good to see you, Charles."

"And you." When she pulled back, Charles looked her over. "Are you ready to try your hand at reprimanding children?"

She wrinkled her nose and glanced around the mansion. "I still can't believe I let you talk me into living here again—let alone teaching children here."

"Most are adolescents," Charles cushioned, rolling his wheelchair to lead her to her room. "Peter is the youngest student."

Raven picked up her bag and followed. "How many students are coming?"

"Twenty," he answered with a grin.

"Jesus Christ, Charles," she groaned. "What if they don't listen to me? I can't hit them into submission. Right?"

Charles grinned and pushed open a large, mahogany door. "You'll be fine. You're fantastic with Peter."

Raven looked around the bedroom. "Because that kid thinks I'm his cool aunt."

"They'll adore you," Charles assured her and dropped a brass key into her hand. "This will be your room. The professors will be on this ground floor, the students on the upper levels."

"So we can catch any late-night sneak-outs?" Raven grinned wolfishly.

Charles let out a laugh. "Have you ever tried to stop Peter? I can't imagine we'll be able to stop a group of mutants from doing whatever the hell they please."

"How come you can say 'hell,'" Peter asked, suddenly appearing with an armful of toys, "but when _I_ say it, you get mad?"

Charles glanced heavenwards.

"No hug for your favorite grownup?!" Raven jeered, feigning an offended look.

Peter's whole face lit up. "RAVEN!" He dropped his armful of toys to the carpet and ran to hug her.

She easily caught him and hugged him back. "Hey, you got taller these past couple of months. Is Hank still sneaking steroids into your Cheerios?"

Peter pulled back and rolled his eyes. "I don't have to drink those shakes anymore if I eat, like, a thousand meals a day."

With his cheek on his propped fist, Charles commented, "That's quite an extraordinary number of meals. You really must be a mutant."

Peter laughed and launched himself onto Charles's lap. "Can you drive us around the grounds? Please, please, _please?_ "

Raven folded her arms and raised an amused eyebrow. "The kid that can run faster than a car wants to ride on a motorized wheelchair?"

"The wheelchair bounces when we go over the bumpy grass!" Peter explained excitedly.

Charles straightened and told her, "He's requested a children's electric car every time I offer to buy him a toy. But considering I live with a speed demon and a man who mechanically modifies everything, I'm inclined to decline."

"Party pooper," Raven sneered playfully.

As Charles wheeled them out of the room, he defended, " _I_ am protecting my mental wellbeing."

"Party pooper!" Peter repeated.

Charles gave Raven a thank-you-for-that look and rolled out towards the back porch.

Raven followed, hiding her smile behind her hand.

"Hey, Charles! Did Alex just get here? I thought I saw—oh." Hank stopped short when he realized who was following the telepath. "Uh, hi. Raven."

"Hank," Raven simply greeted. "Good to see you again."

Charles's pressed his lips together. He didn't know what had happened between the two of them the last time Raven had come to visit, but he didn't particularly want to know. "Well, I—"

"You too," Hank finally replied. The two stared at each other for a bit longer than necessary.

" _Well,_ " Charles tried again, "Alex said he'll be arriving this evening. Did you need him for something?"

"Uh." Hank ripped his eyes off of Raven and slowly backed away. "Nope. Just, uh, wondering."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Alright, then. Peter and I… will just go and—"

"RIDE THE BUMPY HILLS!" Peter finished enthusiastically.

Charles grinned amusedly. "Very important." He backed out of the group and out onto the lawn, leaving those two to talk.

"Why was Hank talking all weird?" Peter asked, peering over Charles's shoulder to watch the adults.

"Because the heart seems to have a fondness for clogging the mouth," Charles said.

Peter squinted at that answer and watched the adults awkwardly converse—at least until they reached the bumpy hills.

 

* * *

 

The first week of the Xavier school was better than Charles could have hoped for. All the students had come. While some were reluctant to leave their families for the schoolyear, all were excited to meet others who possessed extraordinary abilities.

The students respected Charles for all that he done to make this dream happen, and some even saw him as their savior. (Although that made Charles blush and flounder for a refusal.)

The students loved Hank. (Raven said that he cheated by showing them cool chemistry explosions on the first day.)

The students loved Raven—even when she made them run laps for smartass comments. (Charles had told her not to use physical education as punishments, but Peter had cut them all off with an eager "I love running!".)

The students loved Alex—especially the females.

Of course, there were small blips in their lives.

" _DIE, TRAITOROUS SCUM!_ "

With a pitiful look, Charles dropped his head to see the all-too-familiar action figure, once again, lodged into the tire of his wheelchair. He tried rolling the chair a bit to dislodge the toy.

" _DIE, TRAITOROUS SCUM!_ "

Charles collected his patience before scanning the school for the flying thoughts.

 _Peter._ Charles threw the thought into the tornado of a mind, trying not to get sucked into it. _Come downstairs, please._

In the next moment, Peter was beaming in front of him. "Charles! You've gotta see what Alex did to the hedges!"

Charles had a strong feeling that he wouldn't want to know what the laser-wielder had done to the hedges. "You know you're supposed to call him 'Professor Summers' while school is in session."

Peter frowned at that. "Am I supposed to call you 'Professor Xavier?'"

Charles squirmed at that. It would be odd to have his foster child call him by his last name. "Well, I'm an exception. _You_ are allowed to call me 'Uncle Charles.'"

"But no one else calls you Uncle Charles."

"Well, you're special."

"But I can't call Alex 'Alex?'"

Charles waved the conversation away. "Peter, why has your action figure become lodged in my wheelchair _again?_ "

"Oops!" Peter yanked the toy out of the tire and smiled sheepishly. "I'll go put it away!" He was gone before Charles could open his mouth.

"Peter!" Charles called him back.

Peter was instantly back, sans toy. "Yeah?"

"I was thinking it's about time for a haircut."

Peter touched his shoulder-length silver hair.

Ten minutes later, Peter sat on a stool in front of Charles while the telepath took scissors to the ends.

It was quiet, except for the gentle snipping and hair rustling to the floor.

"My dad always cutted my hair," Peter said.

Charles went to correct the grammar of his verb but then decided it could wait. Instead, he murmured, "I remember when he would do that here at the mansion. He declared hair-cutting days and then lined us up like ladies at a hairdresser."

Peter giggled. "You would get so mad when he touched your hair!"

Charles smiled fondly, sadly. "He always cut it too short!"

"Yeah, he likes short hair. He always cut mine short, too."

The door to Charles's bathroom swung open, Hank leapt in, and then he slammed it shut. He collapsed back against it so hard that the doorframe cracked.

While Peter stared with a gaping mouth, Charles frowned disapprovingly at the split doorframe.

"I'll, uh, fix that," Hank said, looking guilty up at the crack.

Charles slowly returned to the task of cutting Peter's hair and asked, "What, my dear friend, is so imperative that you had to barrel in here and ruin a perfectly good display of woodwork?"

Hank gave him a confused look. "I thought you hated the doorframes."

Charles swiped a glance up but didn't stray away from his task. "What is it, Hank?"

"Uh," Hank began. "I—"

"Raven!" Peter shouted happily pointing at Hank.

Hank jerked around to make sure Peter wasn't actually pointing at the blue vixen. He relaxed when he saw only the mahogany door behind him.

"You always talk weird when you're thinking about Raven," Peter said.

Charles raised impressed eyebrows as he trimmed hair. "I see you're as suave as ever, Hank McCoy."

"She trapped me in a broom closet," Hank explained with flapping hands and desperate eyes. "I thought she was a student, so I was trying to help her find something in the hallway, and she _grabbed_ me and shoved—"

Charles jerked his hands to cover Peter's ears.

"Hey!" Peter protested with a frown.

"Before you continue your story," Charles said with a warning look to Hank, "I'd like to remind you of the little ears connected to a remarkably large mouth."

Peter scowled at Charles from the mirror. "I don't have a large mouth." He moved his lips, trying to assess the proportion of them to his face.

"I think she's trying to kill me," Hank squeaked as Charles dropped his hands. "One day, she acts like I don't exist, and the next day she does _this!_ " He moved his hands from side to side and wailed, "She's hot and cold and hot and cold and hot and cold!"

Charles returned to trimming and slowly suggested, "Did you consider that this might be why she's acting so erratically? To… get a rise out of you?"

"Hey, my hair looks kinda cool!" Peter swiveled his head a bit, noticing how half of his hair came to his shoulder while the other half came to the base of his skull.

"No, she wouldn't do that," Hank protested queasily, squinting behind his glasses and crossing his arms. "Would she?"

Charles froze his work to give his friend a knowing look. "You wouldn't believe the stunts she pulled on the staff growing up."

"It's totally neato! Thanks, Uncle Charles!" Peter cheered, admiring his mismatched hair lengths in the mirror.

"No," Charles protested with closed eyes, "we're not—"

With a gust of wind and the opening of a door, Peter was gone.

"Done yet," Charles muttered. "Peter! Come back here please!"

Hank waved him off, using his heightened hearing to explain, "He's already out by the pond, showing his hair off to Scott and Alex."

Charles brushed off silver hair from his dress pants and sighed. "I'll talk to Raven about keeping a professional demeanor in the workplace."

Hank ran a hand down his face, mussing his glasses. "Thanks, Charles." He turned and strode out of the room as the telepath offered a sympathetic smile.

Charles brushed off the last of Peter's hair, set the scissors on his lap, and then wheeled off to find the boy.

As he rolled onto the back porch, Peter jogged up. "Hey, Uncle Charles! Have you seen Hank?"

"Oh, yes," Charles replied breezily. "Moira MacTaggert just rolled in, and I believe I saw them snogging in the hallway."

When Peter's eyes widened, Charles's eyes narrowed.

"What gave me away?" Peter asked. Blue scales rose and flattened, changing the boy into the blue version of Raven. (She had been trying to use her natural form more to help with students' insecurities.)

"I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of seeing Peter _jog,_ " Charles answered, "and I happen to know that he's currently sporting half of a mullet." He held up the scissors with an unamused look.

Raven laughed. "I can barely keep him still long enough to work on an art project. I'm surprised that he lasted for an entire half of a haircut."

Charles fondly looked over the backyard's grounds for the boy and asked, "Raven, what in the world are you traumatizing Hank for?"

"Ah-ha!" Raven said with an accusatory finger. "So you have seen Hank!" She plopped onto a lawn chair beside Charles.

"I'm a mind reader, Raven."

"As if you would ever willingly read anyone's mind," she said with a scoff.

Charles huffed. "Hank did stop by and mention some of your scheming."

" _Scheming?_ He's the one who's playing hard to get!"

Charles gave her a look.

"It's true!" she defended. "He's always so cute with the kids, and he teaches in those hot professor glasses…" She collapsed against her chair with a lustful groan.

Charles grimaced at her. "Whatever the case may be, please try to be more courteous. You're an example to the students, and you currently have over twenty housemates."

Raven waved him off and shifted her blue scales. In the next moment, a moping Charles Xavier fretted from the lawn chair. "Look at that," the copycat said. "I'm just like you—sucking all the fun out of life with my brooding stare."

The real Charles rolled his eyes before driving his wheelchair onto the grass. He spotted a silver streak darting through the edge of trees, and he mentally called him over.

While finishing Peter's haircut on the lawn, Charles secretly practiced _not_ brooding.

 

* * *

 

_**December 1964, North Salem, New York** _

Hanukkah had come and gone. Christmas was over. But Christmas break was still in full swing, leaving the mansion quiet and blanketed in snow.

The perfect time for experimentation.

"I, I think I can feel my legs," Charles observed with a giddy smile. From his position on the examination table, he wiggled his toes.

Hank smiled and tapped Charles's knees with a rubber hammer. Each leg sluggishly kicked.

"Oh my god," Hank murmured. "It actually worked!"

Charles tried not to feel worried about the engineer's lack of faith in this experiment. He smiled, and his brain reflexively sought out Peter's whirling mind a couple of floors above them.

But he couldn't find him.

"Hank," Charles said urgently, focusing in with his powers. "I can't feel Peter."

Hank's brow furrowed.

Charles pushed himself onto his feet, and his legs wobbled.

"Whoa," Hank cautioned, catching the telepath, "let's take things slow."

Charles shook his head. "We've been strength training my legs for this. I just… have to readjust."

Hank gave him an incredulous look. "You just relearned how to walk. Give yourself a minute."

Charles kept a hand on Hank while his other latched onto the edge of the steel table. Gingerly, he took a stiff step forwards. And then another.

"I need to find Peter," Charles muttered determinedly. "With his speed and stamina, he could be taking holiday in Quebec for all we know."

Hank let some of his worry show but protested, "I don't think he would head to Canada for a vacation."

Charles gave him a look.

"Whoa! You can _walk!_ "

Charles and Hank snapped their heads up to see the silver-haired boy excitedly bouncing in the doorway.

"You're not using your chair at all!" Peter noted happily, rocking rapidly on his heels.

Hank showed his confusion while Charles frowned. Charles used his powers to feel the edges of the boy's mind, but he felt nothing. In fact, he couldn't feel _Hank's_ mind. He couldn't mentally sense anything at all.

"Hank," Charles asked slowly, "why can I not feel anyone's minds?"

"Sh—" Hank caught himself with a look at the child and finished, "—ort stack of pancakes. I bet Raven could go make you some if you go ask."

Peter gave him a weird look. "But I wanna see Uncle Charles walk."

Charles released his hold of Hank's thick sweater, using only a hand over the table to level himself as he shuffled his feet forwards. Feeling had enriched his lower half, and the sensation of walking became familiar to him. He took a real step forwards.

"That's so cool!" Peter cheered. He looked to Hank. "Can you make me have special powers?"

Hank squinted through his glasses at the boy. "I think your super speed is the best you'll get."

"Aw," Peter groaned in disappointment.

"Hank," Charles called in a low voice. "My powers are gone."

Hank floundered for a solution. "Let's… go try using Cerebro." He led the way, ready to help Charles if needed.

But Charles was able to follow on his own. He still walked stiffly, but he was entirely mobile.

"It's incredible," Hank noted with a smile.

The edge of Charles's mouth curved up as his bare feet walked across the concrete floor.

"I love Cerebro!" Peter announced cheerily, flying into the telepathic chamber before either adult could stop him. He eagerly waited for them by the chair, and neither Hank nor Charles had the heart to shoo him out.

Charles walked up and fell into the chair. He grabbed the helmet that boosted his powers and secured it while Hank started the machine up.

Nothing happened. No blue dots lit up. No red dots lit up. The spherical chamber remained as gray and plain as it normally seemed.

"How come we can't see the people?" Peter asked, looking up at the blank walls.

"Hank…" Charles said, giving his friend a worried look.

"I…" Hank ran his hands through his hair, making it wild. "I don't know. The drugs that promoted neural connections in your spine must've… subdued… your X gene neural connections."

Charles's face was grim as leaned back in the chair. They'd been working on this serum for months.

"I mean, it was based out of the serum I developed to normalize my appearance," Hank said with a grimace. "It makes sense that this was a side effect."

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. And it was a success. Thank you, Hank." But Charles's tone was colorless. Because this hadn't been a success—not really. This had become a dilemma: walk as an ordinary human or be paralyzed as a mutant.

"I'll keep working on it," Hank vowed, backing out of the room. "Just… just shout if anything changes, OK? The effects of the serum should last for about twenty-four hours."

Charles nodded and rubbed at his eyes. When he heard the door to Cerebro shut, he yanked the damn helmet off his head and shoved it to the floor.

He noticed someone instinctively jump at his movements.

Charles opened his eyes fully and looked to Peter. The boy was watching him with curious, amazed, confused, worried eyes.

"What happened, Uncle Charles?" he asked quietly.

Charles extended a hand, and Peter came closer. "Hank and I developed a serum that lets me walk again. Unfortunately, it blocks my telepathic abilities when I use it."

Peter frowned. "You can't hear my thoughts?"

"Afraid not," he answered with a pitiful grin.

"Well… can you fix it?" the child asked. "So that you can walk and have powers?"

"That's our next step," he answered. "But until then, let's enjoy my walking about, hmm?" He grinned and stood.

Peter looked up in awe. "You're tall."

Charles smiled and grabbed the boy, hefting him onto a shoulder. Peter laughed, and Charles tickled him as he carried them out of the chamber. "How about a game of baseball?"

"But it's all snowy outside!"

"I guess we'll just have to play indoors, then. I won't tell if you won't." Charles winked at the child.

Peter gave a delighted smile.

 

* * *

 

_**January 1965, North Salem, New York** _

During the remaining break, Hank and Charles were able to make no further progress with the serum. They experimented with as many variations as Hank would tolerate (because he would _not_ explain to the students that he had killed Professor Xavier).

No luck.

Every morning when Charles awoke, muted murmurs floated through his skull. He would roll onto his back and throw off his sheets, just to feel the air on his exposed legs for a final time. Then, as the foreign thoughts grew louder, his toes went numb. The voices became louder—Raven's insecurities and assessments, Hank's brilliant, continuous ideas, Peter's whirlwind thoughts. The numbness spread—crawled up his toes, dragged itself into his calves, gagged the muscles of his thighs. And then he couldn't move; he could only hear every thought all too clearly.

And then he'd call Hank up to do all again, using a new variation of the serum.

At least, until the students arrived.

"There is no cure, Charles," Hank pled emphatically one morning. "I've meddled with the composition as much as I can without rendering the healing properties obsolete. There's nothing else I can do."

Charles ground his teeth. It had been a hard few weeks.

"Besides," Hank continued, "I think our efforts would be better spent trying to locate the students that didn't come back from break."

Yes. That had been one of the other dramas plaguing life at the mansion: four of the twenty students never returned from their Christmas breaks. Their families had all insisted that each child had been sent off to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters on the January date requested—yet the four didn't show.

"Yes," Charles agreed soberly. "Please, help me into my chair."

Hank did so easily, using his mutant strength. Charles bitterly envied him; he was able to use the serum to resume a normal life while keeping his powers' benefits.

"Should we check Cerebro again?" Hank proposed.

Charles nodded and drove his chair out of the room, towards the elevator.

But, like every other attempt, the four students didn't appear. Their lights weren't muted; they weren't vacationing together. They simply weren't there.

"I promised this school to be a sanctuary, Hank," Charles murmured solemnly as he took the helmet off.

"And it is," Hank insisted. "The students love it here. And these missing kids—they have nothing to do with this place. You can't blame yourself."

Charles scowled at his helmet. "The only thing they had in common was attending this school."

"They were mutants, Charles," Hank said. "Their very genetic makeup made them targets for psychos."

Charles sighed and placed the helmet down. "We need to talk to the authorities again. Maybe Moira can assist us once more."

 

* * *

 

A few days later, a man came from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

"Who are you?" Peter asked, appearing before the sturdy man. He peeked around the man to see three other men sitting in the van. Peter noticed that every single one had a gun.

The burly man's eyes looked over the boy, taking in the gray hair and impossibly fast movements. His grimace was almost a smile. "And what is your name, little boy?"

Peter frowned. He wasn't a little kid; he was almost _eight_. "It isn't 'little boy.'"

 _Peter,_ Charles voice echoed through the child's mind. _Please return to your German lesson._

Peter sped across the grounds and through the mansion, bypassing Raven's German class to seek out Charles himself.

Charles looked up from the science textbook he was holding, his other hand frozen on a chalk illustration. Scott Summers, Jubilation Lee, Sean Cassidy, and Jean Grey looked towards the boy.

Charles dropped his hand from the chalkboard and chastised, "Peter, Professor Darkhölme is expecting—"

"Theyhaveguns!" Peter blurted with wide eyes.

While the teenagers snapped to attention, Charles snapped shut his textbook and ordered, "Class dismissed. Please return to your rooms for the remainder of the period."

Scott jumped to his feet. "Professor, if there's—"

"You'll be alerted as soon as the situation is known," Charles cut him off swiftly. He gave them a stern look, and the four mutants reluctantly filed out.

Once they were out of hearing range (not that it really mattered with Jean on their side), Charles rolled towards Peter. "What happened?"

Rather than explain slowly enough for Charles to understand, Peter took the telepath's hand and pushed it against his temple. With a reluctant look, Charles let himself get swallowed into the raging storm of Peter's mind.

As soon as the memory was shared, Charles expelled himself from the sickeningly quick mind, gasping.

"They were looking around the mansion," Peter spewed. "Should I go see what they want? Like, if they want to talk to you? Or maybe I can sneak—"

" _No,_ " Charles said sternly as he latched a hand around Peter's arm. "Peter, go to your room and remain there. I do not want you around these men, especially when we don't know their intentions."

Peter pouted. "But they'll never see me coming. I'm _fast_."

"And you'll be grounded if you don't go up to your room immediately," Charles said with a raised eyebrow.

Peter heaved a dramatic sigh and vanished out of Charles's hand. Charles mentally swept and assured himself that the boy had actually done as instructed.

"Kids said you cancelled class?" Alex inquired, leaning his head into the classroom.

Charles drove his wheelchair out of the class, letting Alex follow him to the main foyer. "Yes. It appears that we have unexpected guests."

As Alex strode forward to peek out the front windows, Charles mentally spoke with Hank and Raven, filling them in and asking them to send the students to their rooms.

Just as the last student closed his bedroom door, someone knocked on the front door.

Alex gave his comrades an uncertain look before stepping forwards and pulling the door open.

A burly man stood in the doorway. He was entirely alone, the three other men nowhere to be seen. Charles immediate began mentally searching for their minds and found two of them to be walking the perimeter of the property. The third was waiting in the dark van.

"Hello," the large man said with a polite, teeth-baring smile. "Which one of you is Charles?"

Charles rolled forwards with an equally polite smile. He held out a hand. "I'm Dr. Xavier. I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure."

The man shook his hand. "Special Agent William Stryker. I'm from the FBI. You reported four missing persons cases, and I'm here to follow up."

"They're missing children," Hank clarified, biting his thumb nail and hugging his torso with his other arm.

"Yes, I know all about them," Stryker said. He pointed to the foyer. "Mind if I come in? It's a bit cold out here."

Alex looked to his employer, and Charles subtly nodded. Alex stepped back and let Stryker in.

Charles did a quick sweep of Stryker's mind, not enough to invade but enough to see that the man wasn't going to act on hostile intentions. He seemed harmless enough.

"Wow, you would not believe the amount of snow piling up out there," Stryker commented with that toothy smile.

"Come join us in the drawing room," Charles offered, leading the way. Raven ducked into the kitchen while the men walked on into the room.

"What brings you to the school, sir?" Hank asked as he took a seat on one of the two couches. Alex sat beside him, and Charles parked himself alongside him.

Stryker sat on the opposing couch. "I wanted to follow up on the reports you filed."

A thick thud rattled the ceiling. As the men looked up, Charles mentally check on it: Peter and John were wrestling across the floor for the spot closest to the second floor landing.

"Follow up on what exactly?" Alex asked, resting his forearms on his knees and leaning forwards.

"All four individuals were on their ways to attend school at this institution," Stryker said.

"Yes," Charles confirmed.

"Well," Stryker continued, "I—"

"I made tea," Raven announced, carrying in a platter of rattling tea cups. Hot tea splashed over the sides of the cups, sloshing onto the saucers.

Charles, Hank, and Alex tried to not show their suspicious surprise; Raven was adamantly against all typical housewife duties.

Raven smiled sweetly as she handed each of her colleagues a dripping teacup and saucer. She didn't offer any of the cream or sugar she had left on the tray.

She turned to Stryker with that sweet smile. "Tea?" She held up a cup and saucer.

Charles took a sip of his and struggled to keep his expression neutral. It was lukewarm and both bitter and underwhelming; it was the worst cup he'd ever had.

"No, thank you," Stryker declined.

Raven's jaw tensed and her eyes seemed to frown as she set the cup down. Charles watched her subtle disappointment from the corner of his eyes.

Alex gagged and immediately dropped the tea and saucer to the coffee table. He scraped his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Raven narrowed her eyes on him as she sat on the armrest of his couch.

Hank simply held his tea, not even daring to take a sip.

Stryker blinked. "Like I was saying, your four students attended this school. So they were—what? Mutants?"

Charles stared at him and answered, "Yes. This school acts as an educational sanctuary against the cruel prejudices of the world."

Stryker's smile didn't move past his mouth. "Charming. What, exactly, were these students' powers, then?"

Hank narrowed his eyes. "It should be in the reports their parents filed with the Bureau."

Stryker's expression turned innocent. "I'm just trying to get a better read on these kids. I figured their mutant-powered school would know more about what they can do better than their parents did."

Raven straightened and rattled off the names and brief powers of the students.

Stryker nodded and didn't write anything down.

"Well, please know that the Bureau is doing everything we can to bring those kids home, safe and sound." Stryker resurrected that smile.

Charles nodded. "Please keep us informed of any developments."

Stryker gave a nod, and Alex walked him out the front door.

"What was his brain like?" Raven asked Charles. "Was it as slimy as I'm imagining it to be?"

Charles pressed his fist to his mouth as he thought. He didn't know what William Stryker was investigating.

But he had a feeling that it wasn't the disappearances of those children.

 

* * *

 

_**February 1965, North Salem, New York** _

A week passed, and things only grew worse.

"I'm going to find them, Charles," Alex vowed seriously. He stuffed more clothes into the blue duffel bag on his bed.

Charles solemnly sat in the bedroom doorway. Three more students had gone missing: Jubilee, Sean Cassidy, and Scott Summers. Jean rarely left her room, Alex was furious, and Charles was drowning in guilt.

Because those three had simply gone missing while out on the grounds one night. There was no scuffle in the snow; there were no screams heard. The three had simply vanished.

And Charles was the one who had to solemnly break the news to their parents.

"Don't do that," Alex told his colleague with a long look.

Charles's smile was bitter. Alex had always been perceptive.

"We all know that you're doing the best you can," Alex insisted, pausing his packing. "Those kids didn't get snatched because of you, and those kids aren't missing because of Cerebro."

But those kids had been under Charles's care. And Charles and Hank had spent nearly every waking hour fine-tuning Cerebro.

"Don't blame yourself," Alex told him.

"Good luck," Charles simply replied. "Alert me if there's anything else we can do to assist you."

Alex nodded and went back to packing as Charles rolled out of the room.

"Oh," Charles added, peeking his head back in, "and please do check in every so often. I'll be worrying every minute you're gone."

Alex almost smiled as he nodded.

As Charles drove down the hallway, his mind searched for Peter's. Charles breathed a bit easier when he felt the boy's spiraling mind in his room. He still felt a guilty relief when he assured himself that Peter had not gone missing.

Charles rolled down to his study and mentally roll-called all of the minds of the students and professors. All were accounted for, and all were scattered throughout the mansion. Everyone had the day off (and were to remain indoors), considering the three had vanished only yesterday.

Charles drove up to his desk and grabbed the black, rotary phone. He dialed the number on a slip of paper in his drawer.

When Moira answered, Charles asked her to look into Stryker of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; he explained the situation solemnly. And after he got the confirmation from her, the two ended the call.

Charles leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh. Tomorrow, he would announce the increase of restrictions, the decrease in professors, the missing of the students.

And then the schooling would resume as best it could.

 

* * *

 

Stryker dropped by the next day.

Charles, Hank, and Raven sent the students up to their rooms before they let him in.

"I heard you lost three more students," Stryker accused evenly. He held a tan file in his hand, and his boots tracked snow into the mansion.

"We didn't lose them," Hank shot back. "They were kidnapped."

Stryker didn't look impressed. "Aren't you going to invite me to sit down?"

"No," Raven said.

Stryker looked to Charles; the telepath kept a level stare.

Stryker flipped open the file. "Not a problem; I'll keep this brief.

"I've been looking into all of your students during this investigation. And imagine my surprise when I found out you're housing the spawn of America's most wanted terrorist." Stryker nearly smiled.

Ice choked Charles's lungs. It spread up his throat and across his chest. But he would not let it show.

"Pietro," he said, "has every right to be here as any student."

Stryker gave an accepting nod. "That'd be true—if he had the written consent of his parent or guardian."

" _I_ am his guardian," Charles hissed, hands gripping his armrests. The ice in his chest burned into hatred.

"Legally, you are nothing more than some kidnapper," Stryker said. He jabbed a thick finger at the file. "His only living relative is Erik Lehnsherr. There's nothing in his file about a Charles Xavier getting custody." He snapped the file shut and added with a smirk, "Although, I'm not sure that bastard planned out where his kid goes in case he became a terrorist."

"This has nothing to do with those children getting kidnapped," Raven spat. Hank's fingers curled into fists.

"Oh, but I think it does," Stryker said. "In the eyes of the law, the guy in charge of this shithouse is already in possession of a kidnapped child. It seems to me that he's the one behind the other attacks."

Charles's fingers bit into his armrests as he leaned forward. " _Get. Out._ " His voice was pure venom.

"Not without the boy," Stryker said. He stared at Charles, and his eyes gleamed triumphant.

"Not without a court-ordered subpoena," Hank cut in with a glare. "Peter is a student at this institution. You have no evidence to support the claim that he was kidnapped."

Stryker glowered. "His father didn't release his custody to this school."

"Didn't he?" Raven challenged. "We have the papers to prove that he did."

Although it went against Charles's ethics, he pushed acceptance of that statement into Stryker's mind.

Stryker blinked and ground his teeth. "I'll be back with that subpoena." He turned and stomped out of the mansion.

"Yeah, you do that," Hank taunted, following and slamming the door shut after him.

Charles leaned back in his hair with a haunted gaze.

"God, he's such a prick," Raven muttered as Hank watched the FBI van drive away. Raven glanced over and noticed Charles's expression.

"Hey," she said softly, leaning down beside Charles, "he's not going to win. Peter's not going anywhere."

Charles stared hollowly and hoped she was right.

 

* * *

 

That evening, the phone rang in Charles's study.

"I'll get it!" Peter announced, jumping up from the dining table where everyone sat.

"Peter—" Charles tried to stop him.

"Xavier's School for Smart Mutants!" Peter announced into the phone a second later. "How can I help you?"

"Peter?" a woman asked from the other end.

"Yes…" Peter answered carefully.

"It's Moira MacTaggert. From the CIA? Is Charles—"

"Hi!" Peter enthusiastically replied. "Do you still do super cool secret stuff like that place you took us, like, a few years ago that had all the totally neato windows and planes and _pinball machines_ —"

The phone was snatched from Peter's hand. Charles looked down at him and said, "Thank you, Peter. I'll take it from here."

Peter shrugged and happily zoomed out of the study. He was running past the entryway when he heard something.

_Peter…_

Peter paused in the foyer and cocked his head. That sounded… That sounded like a voice.

_Peter…_

Peter reached for the front door's handle.

"What the bloody hell does that mean?!" Charles's shout echoed down the hall. Peter looked in his direction.

_Peter…_

But then Peter followed the voice.

He knew he wasn't supposed to be outside without an adult, but he knew that voice. It was familiar, and it was calling for _him_. So he darted across the grounds, leaving a wake of snowy footprints behind him.

"Hello?" Peter called out hesitantly. The bitter cold stung his eyes as he squinted through the darkness.

"Peter."

Peter whirled around.

Emma Frost stood before him, bundled in a large, white coat. She squinted through the cold air and said, "I need your help, Peter."

Peter was confused. And, as much as he trusted Emma, he had a bad feeling about being out here. "Wh-what?"

"People have been going missing here, haven't they?" she said, taking a few steps towards him.

Reluctantly, Peter nodded.

Emma closed the distance between them. "They took my sister. And I need you to help me convince Charles to look for her."

"Uh, I don't think he knows how to find them…" Peter said.

Emma knelt down in front of the boy and gently placed her gloved hands on his shoulders. "Please. You're my last hope." Her eyes shimmered with tears.

Peter swallowed. "Um, OK. I'll go ask—"

She launched her arms around him for a grateful hug. She stifled a sob and held him tight. Peter hesitantly returned it.

And then something pricked his neck.

Peter jerked backwards, holding a hand to his neck. With wild surprise, he realized Emma was holding a dart. She stared at him with clear, somber eyes.

Peter was confused. Peter was scared. He stumbled backwards and ran for his home. But his metabolism was quick—too quick to let him make it far. In the middle of the front lawn, Peter Lehnsherr collapsed into the snow.

A dark van sped up, and two men filed out. Emma jumped inside, exclaiming, "You got the kid! Now release my sister!"

Stryker gave her a patronizing smile. "Of course. We'll take you to her now." Emma bitterly took a seat beside him.

One of the men scooped the limp, silver-haired child out of the snow. The other man flanked him, gun at the ready.

" _NO!_ "

The man holding Peter dove into the van. The other stayed behind, firing his gun towards the open doorway of the mansion.

And then the firing man went still.

Charles Xavier rolled onto the frosted porch, teeth gritted and one hand stretch forth. Rage churned off of him in waves.

It was against everything he believed in, but, frankly, he didn't give a damn; Charles took full control of that man's mind.

The man dropped his gun in the snow and blindly turned for the van.

"Drive," Stryker commanded the other man in the van. He pushed Peter aside and slammed the door shut. "You," he commanded Emma with a point, "will shield every mind in this goddamn van."

The van sped off, just as Hank burst out of the mansion's entrance, just as the puppet of a man latched rough fingers onto the bumper of the van.

Hank took one look at Charles and then leapt after the van.

Charles channeled the rage, letting it propel the commandeered man forward. He ground his teeth and glared, letting his mind control the man.

The man gripped the bumper tight, letting his rubber shoes burn across the asphalt as the van sped. The man grabbed the handle of the back door and leapt up to stand on the bumper. He yanked on the handle—but it was locked. Using his elbow, he began pounding against the window.

Stryker watched in horror. "Emma! Get Xavier out of his head!"

Emma held her head with a grimace. "I can't mentally block everyone in this van _and_ him!"

"If you ever want your sister to walk, _you will!_ "

With a pained grunt, Emma pushed her powers to their limits. Her nose began to bleed.

Charles felt his control of the man begin to slip as the van grew farther away and as Emma tried to shield him. With a burst of adrenaline, Charles latched his control around the man's mind.

The man had faltered, but then his slamming elbow resumed, harder than before. The glass shatter across the floor of the van as he broke in.

With a glower, Stryker snatched a gun from the driver and aimed it at the man Charles controlled. And then he fired.

As the man's limp body crumpled to the asphalt and sickeningly rolled, Charles was ejected from that mind. Charles leaned forwards, trying to come back to himself and catch his breath. He had just felt what it was like to die.

And he had just lost his last chance of saving Peter.

Later that night, Charles stared absently at the fire in his study. Its crackling flames did nothing to warm him; they just brought back memories of sitting in front of this fireplace with...

When Hank finally walked in from the brutal cold, Charles looked up.

But Hank somberly shook his head.

Charles was too numb to see the fire anymore.

 

* * *

 

Charles sent everyone home the following week.

Raven left to help Alex's search; Hank stayed.

 

* * *

 

_**April 1965, Unknown Location** _

Peter had no clue how much time had passed. It could've been weeks; it could have been years. He only knew that he'd woken up aching in a cell one morning, and that morning never stopped.

But time didn't much matter anymore.

They woke him daily. Stuffed so many protein shakes down his throat that he felt sick. Made him run. Made him catch. Made him jump. Made him run. Made him run. Made him run.

If he was lucky, that's when they would throw him a few more shakes and be done for the day.

If he wasn't… He tried blocking those days out.

Everything blurred together—although, that might have been from all of the drugs they experimented on his high metabolism. Some days, he couldn't remember that he'd ever slept that night. Other days, he felt each second tick by a thousand times too slowly.

"Run, or we'll shock you again."

Today was one of those days that seemed torturously slow.

Peter ran on the altered treadmill, but a shock zapped through his locked anklet anyways. He yelped but didn't let himself falter; they didn't like it when you stopped.

"I'm running!" Peter protested as he ran. He almost felt angry. But he mostly felt absent.

"Faster."

And so Peter ran faster.

 

* * *

 

_**June 1965, North Salem, New York** _

"Have you heard from Raven?"

Charles shook his head and continued writing. "Not recently."

There was a pause.

"Maybe that's good," Hank hypothesized. "Maybe they got a lead."

Charles didn't respond; he continued writing a letter that announced that the school would remain closed indefinitely.

"I think… I think, maybe, you should try using the serum again."

Charles's pencil stopped.

"Because having your legs back might help you move around more as we keep searching," Hank said. "And your powers… aren't pertinent right now."

 _Pertinent._ Charles almost smiled at that word. His powers were complete, utter shit when it came to locating those children. Cerebro couldn't help them, and Charles was nothing more than ordinary when it came to solely searching for their minds.

"What do you think?" Hank asked hesitantly.

Charles set aside his paper and sat up straight. "I think… that would be the most logical choice."

Because Charles wasn't a superhero; he wasn't a capital-M Mutant. He was overwhelmingly ordinary when it came to helping Peter.

So why not subdue his useless abilities and make it official?

 

* * *

 

_**August 1965, Location Unknown** _

He wasn't in a closed-off room today, and that made Peter feel the closest thing he could to happiness. They had put him in a pen, with his arms and legs strung on taut bungee cords. Other pens lined up alongside his, forming rows of mutants, waiting to be experimented on.

Peter pulled uselessly at the restraints because, today, he was coherent enough to want to escape.

But coherency meant that he could think. And that meant that Peter was hurting more than physically.

A glint of silver caught his eye. He looked to his left and saw that the ceiling light would reflect on his bracelet if he moved it. It should be too small by now, but it wasn't. He didn't know if it was somehow enchanted or he'd stopped growing again.

His dad had said the bracelet acted as a link between the two. Peter wondered if his dad knew what had happened. He wondered if his dad could feel what Peter felt.

Peter hoped that he couldn't.

 _If he's out there,_ Peter thought, _why hasn't he come for me? If he's linked to me, and he loves me, why hasn't he saved me?_

Peter knew his dad was in prison. But Peter knew his dad: no prison could contain him, especially when they were all founded on metals.

So why hadn't he come?

Peter wondered if his dad could break out of this place. He glanced around, noticing the steel bars of all of the cages. _Yeah,_ Peter thought, _he'd break out of here, easy._

But this was Peter's prison. And he didn't stand a chance.

Peter remembered when that toy store employee told him bad kids go to jail. Peter was in jail—did that mean he was a bad kid?

"Turn it off," a voice to his left rasped.

Peter jerked his head to see around his stretched arm. On the floor of the cage beside him, Emma was hunched on the floor. She had bruises covering every inch of her wrists, ankles, face, and neck. At least, that was the bruises he could see out of the mandated jumpsuit.

"What?" Peter asked hesitantly. His voice sounded weird to him.

"Don't think about anything," she pushed out through a rough throat. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, and her eyes were little more than slits due to swollen skin and sleep deprivation. "It makes it hurt less if… if you just shut off your head."

Peter stared at her, and she sagged onto the floor, unconscious.

Peter frowned and turned his head to look at his stretched limbs. He pulled on them, not wanting to end up like Emma. He pulled, and he yanked, and he grunted, and jerked every way that the cords allowed.

And then he drooped. He closed his eyes. Without another option, he focused on the feeling of metal wrapped around his left wrist.

And then he turned it off.

 

* * *

 

_**August 1965, North Salem, New York** _

Hank tossed his glasses onto his desk and rubbed his face. He'd been working on Cerebro for months, and nothing was working. Those kids, Emma, Stryker—they'd all just _vanished_ off the face of the goddamn planet.

"Let's take a break," Charles said hollowly. He stiffly rose from the chair he had pulled up to Hank's desk.

Hank sighed, put his glasses back on, and followed the Professor out of his lab. "Have you heard from anyone?"

Charles glanced at him as they ascended the stairs. "Raven checked in earlier this morning. Nothing to report."

Of course. Hank's mouth formed a bitter line.

Ten minutes later, the men sat in silence and ate sandwiches. The mansion was always silent these days. It was a stifling blanket these days, smothering them day in and day out. Hank knew something needed to change.

But he was afraid that things were only about to change for the worse.

"Do you think we should tell Erik?" Hank blurted.

Charles jolted. He blinked at his friend and struggled to swallow his bite. "About… Stryker?"

Hank rubbed the back of his neck. "Well… yeah. And Peter. And the other kids. And Emma."

Charles looked down and set his half-eaten sandwich on his plate. "We can't contact him. Cerebro can't reach him, wherever the hell he is, and Moira mentioned that he's not dead, simply imprisoned."

Hank wondered when the hell Charles had figured that out.

"Besides," Charles rushed to continue, "it doesn't much matter. Informing that man will just bring him more agony; he won't be of help."

Hank squinted at his sandwich. "Well… what if we made him useful? We… we could get him out to assist—"

"No."

Hank looked over at him, and Charles's gaze was stern.

"We'll do no such thing," Charles elaborated. "That man has been imprisoned for a reason. And if Cerebro cannot assist us, I can't imagine he will be much help either."

Hank floundered for a way to explain. "But we need _something_. Something else to go on. We can't just keep doing the same thing, day in and day out, and hope that something changes—"

"Yes," Charles snapped with closing eyes, "it's the very definition of madness, I know. But as our only other option is to _giving up_ , I insist that we continue as best we can."

"Yeah, well, the best we have is only gonna get worse."

Charles's eyes opened. They focused on Beast.

"I got drafted," Hank admitted with a thin, forced smile. "The government decided that my mutation is no longer weird—just helpful, apparently." He reached into his coat pocket and threw the papers on the table.

Charles blinked at them before pushing aside his plate and reaching for them. He rifled through the letters, the mailed draft. "When did these come in?"

"Yesterday," Hank said grimly. He pushed himself out of his chair to find himself a drink.

Charles looked up at him before returning his attention to the papers.

"I've got three weeks until I have to go in," Hank said. He found a bottled amber liquid in one of the cupboards and poured it into a tumbler.

"Hank…" Charles did little to mask his pained sympathy.

Hank swallowed the burning drink and then set the glass down. With his eyes squinting against the burn, he looked at the telepath. "No, don't feel bad. That's not what this is about. I can take care of myself. I'm worried about you."

Charles raised his eyebrows. "Me?"

"You," he accused with a point, "won't have anyone here to help you in this mansion once I'm gone. You can get Raven or Alex, but we both know that they would be useless here. If Erik—"

Charles flinched at the name.

"No," Hank pressed, stepping towards him, "if _Erik_ was here, he could would help you tear the world apart to rescue those kids. And you wouldn't have to be alone, Charles."

Charles's jawline tightened, and he looked out the window. "I think I would prefer solitude."

Hank sagged back against the island. "Maybe I can dodge the draft. They—"

"No," Charles reprimanded, snapping his gaze back to Beast. "It will only diminish mutant-human relations further, not to mention the trouble you could find yourself in. You must go."

Hank's eyes were pained.

Charles lightly shook his head. "Don't worry about me, Hank. Out of all of our situations, I would say that I got off with the lightest burden." He almost managed a smile.

Hank didn't believe him for a second.

"I'll be fine," Charles insisted.

Hank could do nothing but accept that lie.

 

* * *

 

_**October 1965, Unknown Location** _

Peter realized that if he wiggled his fingers really, really fast and let his eyes totally zone out, his entire hand was a blur.

"Stop it."

Peter's fingers reached towards the left of his cage, stretched out on bungee cords. He kept fluttering his hand.

"Stop it," Emma growled beside him, throwing an arm over her tired face. "Your bracelet is reflecting the lights into my eyes."

"It's not a bracelet," Peter mumbled. "It's a link."

Emma pushed herself up on her elbow and glared at him. "Well, your _link_ is shining in my eyes."

Peter looked at her. She had dark circles under her eyes, and he hadn't seen her for a couple of weeks. He guessed that they had made her do the sleep deprivation thing.

But Peter didn't care. He was rotting in this place because of her. So not only did he keep flitting his fingers, he made sure the bracelet was constantly reflecting light right into her eyes.

She snarled and flipped onto her side, facing away from him.

Peter bet she was tired. Just like he had been last month when those monsters wouldn't let him sleep for days at a time. So that was why he started to hum.

Emma let it go for a solid minute before she snapped. She launched herself at the side of her cage, rattling the metal with a roar. "Shut the hell up!"

"No!" Peter snapped back with a glower, finally stopping his hand's movement. "I'm stuck in here because of you! I'm always hungry and tired and tied up because you suck butt!"

Emma ground her teeth. But she turned away from him. She sat down on the floor of her cell, and then she laid down.

"What?!" Peter challenged. "Got nothin' to say?!"

She didn't respond, so Peter assumed that she had fallen asleep. He scowled in anger and looked at his hand, ready to keep reflecting light at her.

But he was tired; fluttering his fingers like that had zapped out the only energy he had left from his last protein shake. So Peter frowned and counted the patrolling footsteps of the armed guards in the hall.

And that's when it hit him—he had _yelled_. He had gotten _mad_. He had _felt_ something. And he hadn't… He hadn't felt anything but pain and numbness in _weeks_.

Peter was so deeply reflecting this realization that he missed the quiet "I'm sorry" whispered from his left.

 

* * *

 

_**November 1965, North Salem, New York** _

The snow came early that year. From the window of his study, Charles watched it flutter down and spread across the lawns, blanketing the tops of the trees and smothering the sidewalks.

Charles hated it. He wanted to run outside and scream at it to go away. Because the last time it had been winter, it had been the same winter that Peter had been kidnapped out of this very house. Because the last time he had seen snow, it had been the snow that Peter had been dragged out of by cruel hands.

And if this was a new snow, then Peter had been gone for nearly a year.

The very thought made Charles Xavier sick. He chugged down a glass of sharp whiskey before the burn of stomach acid could eat his throat first.

His toes began to go numb.

Stiffly, Charles rose and walked down to the basement. Numb toes was the only precursor he had anymore to knowing the serum was wearing off; he had no other minds to hear these days.

He went into Hank's lab and grabbed a vial of the serum and a syringe. He made a mental note that he would need to make more soon; he would be out in a week.

He stuffed the vial and syringe into the side pocket of his wheelchair and then sat it in the seat. He drove the chair out of the lab, down the hall, and into the Cerebro chamber. He rolled up to the end of the walkway, grabbed the helmet, and waited.

His feet were numb now.

This had been Charles routine for weeks now. He would spend a day with his feet, going into town and looking for physical clues of Peter and Stryker. He would spend the next day with his abilities, searching through Cerebro for any thoughts concerning Stryker or mutants.

His calves were gone.

He didn't care how many lives he violated anymore. He didn't care that he was spying into people's private thoughts. He would rifle through any head that he pleased now because if he didn't, he would have nothing. Nothing and no one.

His thighs went numb.

And with that, Charles secured the Cerebro helmet on and set to work.

 

* * *

 

_**April 1966, Location Unknown** _

Peter realized he didn't feel cold anymore.

"Haven't seen you in a while."

Peter's eyes focused through some hazy barrier in his mind. He realized he was back in the cage with his limbs strewn up. He looked over at Emma; she was lazily collapsed against the side of her cage, facing him.

"Wh-what?" His voice cracked, and his throat felt foreign. When was the last time he'd spoken?

"I haven't seen you around here in months," she said.

Months? Peter felt like he'd been here at most a week ago. But maybe she just hadn't been here at the same time…?

Peter laid on his cot in a stunned silence.

"I regret what I had to do," Emma said after a while. "I thought they'd killed you up until they dragged you in here this morning. And that made me feel…" She cleared her throat. "The point is, you shouldn't have to suffer at the hands of these animals."

Peter frowned. "Why would you help them?"

There was a reluctant pause before, "They have my sister. They said they'd kill her if I didn't lead them to you."

"It's OK," Peter whispered. But it wasn't—not really. He didn't think any of this was OK. But he'd been taught that if someone apologized, you were supposed to forgive them.

Even if Peter didn't realize that Emma never truly apologized.

The armed guards opened the main door and marched into the vast room. They marched closer and closer to Peter's cage. Peter's toes curled for traction against his cot, and his hands curled inwards. He didn't want to be picked. He didn't want them to touch him.

One of the guards did anyways, pointing at the silver-haired boy with a point. Peter writhed as the other men went to open the cage.

"Take me," Emma blurted. She leaned against the wires of her cage, staring boldly at the men. "Take me instead of him."

The men paused, flickering glances to one another. And then they let go of Peter's cage. Peter relaxed for a heartbeat.

And then the men grabbed the door of Emma's cage. Peter watched as they swung it open and strutted in. Although Emma moved willingly, one rammed the end of his gun into the side of her head, knocking her to the concrete.

"Hey!" Peter protested. But the guards didn't even glance at his scowling face. They hauled the limp woman up by her arms and dragged her down the row, through the main door, and out of the vast room.

Peter closed his eyes and tried not to think about Emma. Because she had been kind for a moment, which made him feel something. And feelings made him awake, and being awake just brought pain.

So Peter did what Emma had encouraged him to do all those months before: he turned it off. He blocked out who he was, where he was, and why he was here. He had no past, and he had no future. He was floating in this thing called the present, and he didn't have to feel anything he didn't want to. He didn't have to feel his hunger or the temperature of the air if he didn't want to.

And then it hit him: Peter doesn't feel cold anymore. And, under any other circumstances, that would be a good thing. But Peter had just started feeling cold in this poorly insulated facility, meaning that it was November. So if he didn't feel cold…

_What had happened to winter?_

 

* * *

 

_**August 1966, North Salem, New York** _

Charles gave up his mutant identity months ago. After day after day after day after day after _days_ of nothing but failure and hurting and wishing he could just fucking be strong enough to find those mutants—

He turned it off. He stabbed himself with the serum, and he researched genetics. He didn't get out of bed, and he stabbed himself again when his toes went numb. He got out of bed, ate a sandwich for the day, and injected himself when his toes when numb.

He didn't let himself hear thoughts anymore. No one was around to listen to anyways.

 

* * *

 

_**October 1966, Location Unknown** _

He made it to October (not that Peter had any real idea what month it is). He made it until that month in 1966 before he finally gave up.

Because his left wrist still shone with that stupid link. And it was a useless link because it didn't help his dad find him. And it was a useless link because if his dad didn't care enough to save him, then he must not really love him.

Peter was locked in a padded room, the one they stored him in alone when he wasn't in his cage. The floor and the walls and the ceilings were padded. Even the door was padded. The only things not cushioned there were the long, steel door handle and the security camera. Peter could run around in circles here until he collapsed and wanted to vomit from hunger and exhaustion.

But just before he reached that point, the ceiling light reflected off his bracelet just enough to draw his attention. Peter dropped to the floor and looked at the stupid link. He found a burning hatred roaring through him. His dad didn't care. Charles didn't care. They would be there, they would have rescued him, if they had cared.

And this wasn't a link. It was just some stupid bracelet. And it didn't mean that Erik was always with him, because

_WHERE THE HELL IS HE?!_

Peter grabbed at the bracelet with a trembling, angry hand. He pulled and tried to slink the stupid thing off, but it wouldn't budge; he'd grown too much to let it move properly. But Peter wedged grimy, thin fingers under the bracelet, and he yanked. He wanted it off, and he wanted it off _now_. He shoved it up into his hand as hard as he could, and he didn't stop until his wrist was swollen.

But the bracelet didn't budge.

With tears sliding down his face and an angry sob in his throat, Peter shoved himself up off the ground. He looked wildly around the room and saw the only point of leverage he could reach: the steel door handle. Peter marched up to it and slammed his bracelet against it with a cry. He screamed furiously as he banged his wrist down on it again and again and again.

But the goddamn thing wouldn't budge.

Peter pulled it again with a desperate grunt, and then he went back to denting it on the handle again and again. The skin around the bracelet was puffy and raw and bleeding, but Peter had had worse; he didn't stop.

He pounded at it over and over and over. He sobbed as it wouldn't move. He hit and cried and—

It weakened. Peter distinctly felt one of the weaker metals in the blend finally give to the unforgiving steel. Peter pulled at the bracelet before getting the idea to vibrate his hand. He moved his wrist at an inhumane pace, painfully chafing his skin further. As the metal slowly warped, Peter was able to yank on it with a final cry.

And it came off.

Peter gripped the twisted metal and chucked it, straight at the security camera, with a hysterical shout. Part of his soul felt empty when he saw the bracelet break the camera and then fall limply to the floor. That link had meant everything to him because his dad had loved him. But his dad wasn't even here.

The door slammed open, and armed men marched in. Peter was too exhausted to do anything but let them inject him with whatever they wanted.

Peter fell unconscious.

 

* * *

 

_**March 1967, North Salem, New York** _

Hank walked in through the front door of the mansion. It wasn't locked, he realized with a furrowed brow. He worried that Charles wasn't here.

"Professor?" he called. Silence met him. He cautiously closed the door and dropped his army duffel bag at his feet.

He walked through the foyer, up the stairs. His senses told him that someone was here: he could hear a calm heartbeat, smell the reek of alcohol and going too long without a shower.

He followed the indicators into Charles's bedroom. He nudged the ajar door, and it opened wide. The stench hit him like a wave, and he had to blink before he could focus on the mess. "Oh, Charles."

Charles was strewn out over his bed, opening one bloodshot eye. His face was covered in a straggly beard; his pants hung low on his sunken waist. He hadn't bothered with a shirt—or any attempt to control his overgrown hair. The entire room was smothered in used serum bottles, discarded syringes, and empty bottles of liquor.

Many, _many_ empty bottles of liquor.

"Beeeast…?" Charles slurred lazily. He tilted his head so he could use both eyes. He squinted in disbelief at what he saw.

"Jesus Christ, Charles," Hank breathed in a growl. He stepped into the room, avoiding a pile of glass shards. He started rifling through the serum bottles left on the dresser: all dry as a bone and enough to subdue every mutant he knew three times over.

"How are you here?" Charles mumbled his question as he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

Hank couldn't take his eyes off the number of syringe bottles. "What? Did you expect me to stay in the army forever?"

There was a pause before Charles's "Is the war over, then?"

Hank ran a giant hand down his hairy face. He turned around and walked up to Charles. "No; the war's still happening." He pulled the top sheet and bunched-up comforter off the bed and chucked them into the hallway. He didn't even want to think about the state of his lab.

"You need a shower," Hank accused. He pulled the Professor out of the bed and made him stand. He wasn't surprised when the man could; Charles had enough of those serum bottles to prove it.

Charles's eyes became half-lidded as he limply leaned against Beast. "You're… blue..."

Hank's terse smile was mostly a toothy grimace. "I didn't have the lab access that you've been exploiting." He helped Charles stumble towards the ensuite bathroom. "The army wanted me to work in this form anyways."

As Hank set up the shower, Charles leaned against the bathroom wall with a look of pained concentration. Hank could tell that even without his powers, Charles was actively deducing something.

"Wh—" Charles began to ask.

But Hank grabbed his arm and shoved him into the shower, pants and all. Charles gasped against the freezing stream of water and tried to stumble out. Hank gently pushed his chest so he stayed under the spray.

"You smell like a bar bathroom," Hank told him. "Take a damn shower." And then he turned and walked back into the bedroom so he could clean up the telepath's disaster.

"It's like I'm his mother," Hank grumbled bitterly to himself. He snatched up bottle after bottle after bottle until he realized that Charles's mother would be rolling over in her grave at that insult; she would never clean up after her son.

With a sigh, Hank tossed the bottles into the overflowing trashcan and set to collecting glass shards.

 

* * *

 

The following morning, Hank sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading one of the many, many newspapers that had been piled-up outside the mansion gates.

"You're not blue," Charles noted as he shuffled into the kitchen, wearing the robe he had slept in.

"Yeah, I'm back on the good stuff." And Hank noticed that Charles was too, based on the man's stiff gate. He must have recently injected himself with serum if his muscles were that uncooperative.

Charles collapsed into the chair across from Hank and put his shaggy head into his hands. He only smelled faintly of alcohol now.

Hank slid a plate of toast and eggs towards the Professor.

Charles eyed it before looking up at Hank. "Thank you." Hank nodded, and Charles picked a fork off the plate to dig in.

Hank stood and poured his friend a mug of coffee. When he handed it over, Charles looked up at him with clear eyes. "I heard you this morning," he said.

Hank wasn't sure what that meant.

"Your thoughts," Charles clarified, his hand holding the extended mug right along with Hank. "I heard your mind. I'm so sorry—for every part of it."

Hank released the mug and turned away. He felt comforted that someone else shared his emotional pain. He felt violated that Charles had dipped into his head without permission—it was something he had never done before.

"There's still good in humankind, Hank," Charles said after a long sip of coffee. "I know what they put you through was horrendous—"

"They expected me to die," Hank snapped through bared teeth, whirring around to face the Professor. His skin colored with blue.

Charles blinked. "They did."

Hank almost relaxed at the confirmation.

"But you didn't," Charles reminded kindly, "because of the kindness of that army doctor."

Hank swallowed and rubbed at his eyes behind his glasses. Charles was right, of course. He had been thrown to the wolves because of the cruelty of humans—and he'd been saved by their compassion.

Hank looked up to his friend, to thank him and maybe mention the Purple Heart that that very army doctor had ensured he receive.

But Charles was busy spiking his coffee with a long stream of Pyrat Rum.

Hank sighed and left the honor sitting in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

_**April 1967, Location Unknown** _

They usually left Peter alone nowadays. Once in a while, he'd get too mouthy, and a guard would decide to "teach him a lesson."

But, typically, no one offered him a glance anymore.

Whenever Scott Summers was dragged past his cage, he tried to check Peter over. It almost made the boy feel something warm.

Emma didn't speak to him often. Only on the hard, long days where he could feel his blood slithering through his veins at an incredibly slow pace.

Then she'd tell him about her childhood with Kayla. She talked about running through Parisian streets and living on the coasts of Georgia and California and Oregon.

And Peter would talk about growing up at the mansion. The giant oak trees' shade in the spring and sledding across the snowy backyard in the winter. He didn't talk about anyone.

And then they'd resume their silence. It was harder to turn it all off if you were conversing.

So Peter turned it all off.

 

* * *

 

_**June 1967, North Salem, New York** _

And then It Happened.

"Professor!" Hank called enthusiastically, clutching papers and running through the halls of the mansion. " _Professor!"_ He barged into Charles's room, jolting the man into consciousness.

Charles squinted unhappily at the excited mutant. "What the bloody hell?"

"I found something," Hank said. His gleaming smile almost sparked anticipation in Charles.

But Charles knew better than to feel things like that anymore. Still, he stiffly pushed himself into a sitting position on his bed and gave Hank his attention.

"There's a mutant that I've been tracking," Hank said, rifling excitedly through a pile of newspaper clippings. At Charles's uncomprehending stare, Hank elaborated, "It started with some reported deaths and explosions that seemed to follow this guy, so I put him on the radar.

"And, _Charles._ " Hank beamed. "It paid off."

Charles blinked. Something suspiciously akin to hope began to crawl into his chest.

"That mutant?" Hank continued. "He was reported going after some other mutant. And that mutant—Gambit—was on the national radar."

Charles held up a hand. "How on earth did you manage to find all of this out?"

"I've been working with Moira," Hank said. He almost laughed as he asked, "Charles, do you know why Gambit was on the national radar?"

Charles lowered his hand.

"Because he reported being taken captive to a mutant testing facility," Hank said. "Moira just called, telling me what Gambit tried explaining to some ignorant feds. He says that he was kidnapped there with tons of other mutants!"

Charles shoved himself onto his feet, faltering a bit when he realized his feet were numb. His bloodshot eyes narrowed. " _Where?_ "

"Three Mile Island," Hank announced brightly. "And if we power up Cerebro, we can check if it's being blocked from your powers and—"

Charles was already marching past him on dead feet, heading straight for the basement.

 

* * *

 

_**June 1967, Three Mile Island** _

Charles had infiltrated Logan's mind entirely. He knew everything about the mutant. He had infiltrated Gambit's mind entirely. He knew everything about the mutant.

And now he knew everything he needed to save those innocent lives.

As the jet landed just outside of the tunnels of the facility, Charles could feel the minds of the every individual becoming clearer and clearer as Logan tore his way through the place, freeing everyone.

 

* * *

 

Peter figured that the brunette had to be Emma's sister since they were hugging.

"Don't worry," Scott said as he blindly unstrapped Peter's limbs from the cords. "We're going home." Keeping his eyes shut, he smiled.

Peter didn't have it in him to return the sentiment.

"Let's go!" Wolverine barked at all the freed prisoners. Peter was shoved into the crowd of mutants as they jogged for the exit. He couldn't believe he was allowed to move his limbs again. None of this felt real.

Wolverine led them to a door, but gunmen began shooting as soon as it was pulled open. After Kayla's insistence, Emma volunteered to help Scott take down the gunmen. The rest nodded.

Peter was the only one who noticed that Kayla had been shot.

The gunmen were laserbeamed down by Scott's eyes. Peter was pushed towards the exit.

Kayla and Wolverine broke away as Scott helped direct the group into some tunnels. Emma led the way, and Peter felt the need to tell her about her sister.

 _Peter,_ a familiar voice sounded in his mind.

Peter's heart stuttered. He wasn't sure that any of this was real.

_It's real. Go left._

"I don't know which way to go," Scott said, looking between the left and right tunnel lines.

_Go left._

"W-we should go left," Peter blurted. The group looked at him in confusion, but they listened.

As they reached the opening of sunlight, Peter pulled on Emma's arm. "Emma, I don't know if you noticed—"

"Professor!" Jubilee cheered as she cleared the tunnel's opening.

Peter flicked a look up, his heart stuttering again.

"Noticed what?" Emma demanded.

Peter looked back to her. "Um, that, Kayla was shot."

They were the last two left in the tunnel.

Emma grabbed too tightly onto his arm. "What?"

"One of the bullets hit her when we were leaving the cage room," Peter said.

Emma glared. "And you didn't think to say anything?!"

"Peter!" Charles called from aboveground.

Peter swallowed and glanced up.

Emma shoved his arm away from her. "I'm going after her."

"I can run!" Peter offered quickly.

Distantly, Charles called out, "Please, come into the jet!"

"I can run," Peter offered, "and make sure that she gets back here."

 _Peter, no!_ Charles was in his head.

"I'll be fast," the boy told them both. "I—"

Emma and Peter froze. Emma's betrayed expression became an unmovable mask; Peter's running stance made him look like a statue. Neither could move a muscle.

Until they started moving. Their torsos relaxed as their feet walked and walked up the tunnel's opening. They could do nothing but witness their bodies being marched onto the X jet. Sitting just inside the door, Charles held fingers to his temple and watched the two walk in.

 _Charles,_ Peter thought desperately. _I can help her!_

"Kayla's already dead," Charles announced bitterly. The door locked into place behind them, and then they were released.

" _NO!_ " Emma raged, throwing herself against the door. She dented it and prepared to throw herself into it again.

"Uh, Charles?" Hank called nervously from the pilot's seat.

Charles focused on the distraught woman, and she collapsed unconscious to the floor.

"Everybody hold on tight!" Hank called cheerily as the jet began to rise.

"No!" Peter cried pleadingly, zipping towards Charles. He ignored how hairy his pseudo uncle had become and grabbed one of his hands. "Please, we have to help Kayla! She's Emma's sister!"

"I know who she is, Peter," Charles said softly, watching the boy with grateful eyes. "But she can't be saved."

Peter's eyes pricked with tears. He had heard Emma talk for so long about her sister. He knew how much she meant to her. And Peter knew that if he just moved fast enough, he could help her. He thought that if he hit enough buttons on the control panel, the back of the jet would open, and he could run out to save her.

But Peter found himself sitting beside Charles, a seatbelt snug around his waist. He couldn't really even remember what he'd been planning on doing.

Charles let out a shaky sigh of relief and wrapped an arm around the boy; he chose to overlook how Peter tensed at the touch. "I'm so glad you're alright."

Peter didn't know what he was supposed to say to that.

"Thank God you're all alright," Charles said to the rest of the cabin, Emma's limp form aside. "We've been searching for you lot for ages."

With his eyes still closed and his fingers tightly gripping his seat, Scott asked, "How… how long have we been gone, Professor?"

Charles frowned. "Longer than it appears to you, so it seems."

"I've been tracking the seasons," Jubilee said with a look out the front window. "It's been about two years."

Peter stiffened _. Two years?_ That couldn't be right. Because it hadn't felt like two years. It'd felt like fifty years or maybe a few months or one year, tops.

But Charles nodded, his arm still around the boy. "A bit… a bit over two years."

The whole cabin sat in a stunned silence.

Nobody spoke again until they exited the jet.

 

* * *

 

_**July 1967, North Salem, New York** _

Time didn't much matter anymore.

After the students had been reunited with their families, after Emma had awoken and simply disappeared, it was just Peter, Hank, and Charles.

But it didn't matter. Because Peter was malnourished, but he didn't want to eat. Because Peter was chronically tired, but he could never sleep.

Because some vacant hole had been carved into his chest, and nothing could fill it.

So Peter sat in his room day in and day out, not caring about the passing of the sun or when Hank told him that dinner was ready. Sometimes, he would down the protein shakes so they would just stop talking at him. (If his body let him keep them down.)

But, apparently, Charles had had enough. Because one night, he barged into Peter's room unannounced, wheels rolling across the hardwood.

"I'd hardly call it 'barging' when it is my house," Charles reminded him with a slight smile.

Peter didn't smile back. He stayed curled up on his side, facing Charles from his dark blue bed.

Charles sighed and scooted closer. "Peter… I'm so sorry for what you're experiencing. I'm so sorry for what you were forced to endure. But we must take our first steps out of this. We must try to achieve the lives we deserve."

Charles always said stuff like that to Peter nowadays. None of it really held meaning for Peter, though.

Charles leaned forwards and offered, "I could erase it all, if you would like. I could close your mind to the memories—"

Peter scooted back from him then. Because he didn't want anyone touching him anymore. He didn't want anyone making him do anything anymore.

Charles's sat up straighter and swallowed. "Perhaps… Perhaps, I could empathize with you? You could show me only what you would like to share with me, and I could better understand the pains you're forced to carry."

Peter squinted at nothing in particular. "That doesn't seem fair for you."

Charles's smile was bitter. "Life rarely is. But I would like to help you any way I can, if it's all the same."

Slowly, Peter sat up. He watched Charles cautiously and checked, "You want me to show you… my memories?"

"If you'll permit it."

Peter scowled. "But you won't, like, brainwash me again, right?"

"I'd hardly call it brainwashing," Charles muttered. "But, you're right; I will simply witness any memories that you want me to see."

Peter watched him before nodding.

Charles almost smiled as he raised his fingers to his temple.

And Peter showed him all of it. He didn't know how to pick memories from the hell he endured, so he showed Charles the forced feedings, the running until he couldn't breathe, the exhaustion that made him puke. He showed him Emma's consideration and the bungee cords and turning it off and the beatings and the armed guards dragging him and Scott's compassion and the beatings and the destruction of his father's bracelet and how they made him run and run and run and run.

And when Peter was done, Charles came back into himself. His face was unhealthily pale, and he wobbled in his wheelchair. Then, without warning, Charles vomited all over himself and the floor.

Peter was on the other side of the room in a blink, cowering with guilt in the corner. "I'm… I'm sorry…"

Charles waved a shaking hand at him, trying to reassure him as he breathe heavily.

"I'll… go get Hank," Peter said quietly, zipping out of the room before Charles's soft calling of his name could reach his ears.

Hank, who had been dozing behind his desk, jumped into alertness when Peter suddenly appeared with a rustle of papers.

"Charles threw up," Peter said worriedly.

Hank stood up immediately, concern overwhelming his features.

Peter grabbed onto Hank's hand and began flying, dragging the genius up the stairs and then up another flight and down the hall to his bedroom. When they stopped, Hank stumbled and gripped his neck with a queasy grimace. When Beast saw the vomit already on the floor, he looked ready to puke himself.

"Peter, please do not feel guilty," Charles assured him as he slowly became less sick and breathy. "My body just isn't as equipped for high velocity as yours is."

"Yeah, that's valid," Hank choked out, leaning over to grip the nightstand for support.

Peter looked between the two sick men, and his stomach lowered further. "Oh."

"It's not your fault," Charles assured him as he painfully opened his eyes to look at him. "You're incredible, and—hmm." Charles closed his eyes again as he breathed through a fresh wave of nausea.

"I'll get the mop," Peter announced quietly. Not that he really knew how to use a mop.

"Peter, wait—" Hank tried, throwing out a hand and stumbling to his unsteady feet.

Peter was back with a mop and an empty bucket in less than thirty seconds. Not sure what to do then, he leaned them against his bed and then backed up to the wall. He guiltily watched the sick men with his hands behind his back.

Hank eventually was able to walk enough to pick up the bucket and take it into the ensuite bathroom.

As the water ran, Charles blinked his eyes open to stare at Peter. "I know you feel at fault. For tonight and more. But none of this has been your fault. William Stryker targeted you and the others because he wanted your genes and he was selfish. None of you deserved that. And I'm sorry." His voice cracked as tears flooded his eyes. "I'm so sorry that we weren't able to rescue you before we did. I wish, more than anything, that we had."

Peter's frown didn't move. His chest hurt more. He felt guilty and ashamed and bitter and untrusting. He knew that Charles meant what he said. But he also couldn't truly understand why no one had helped him. Why his dad hadn't torn the earth apart to save him. Why it had taken some man they call the Wolverine to let Charles open up his jet and let Peter aboard.

Hank walked back into the room and began mopping up the mess.

"I'm gonna go walk around," Peter mumbled and hurried out of the room.

Charles sagged back in his chair. As much as it pained him, he wished that Erik were here to comfort his aching son.

 

* * *

 

_**October 1967, North Salem, New York** _

Charles ran a hand through his trimmed beard as he graded reports. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters had resumed the month prior, and school was in full swing. Alex had come back to teach since his brother would be attending. Hank, of course, resumed his teaching position. But Raven chose to take the year off, choosing to travel in the hopes of finding mutant students and colleagues to send to the School.

Everything was getting back to how it should be—but Peter still wasn't the same.

A silver streak blurred past Charles's open office door, and he heard the distinct sound of crying. Charles set down the science report in his hand and listened in for any other sounds.

Something metallic clattered to the floor of Hank's vacant lab.

 _Peter_ , Charles called mentally.

Reluctantly, Peter responded, _What?_

_Would you step into my office for a moment please?_

Charles waited for a solid thirty seconds before the boy trudged his feet into the room. He stood with a slumped shoulders and a downcast, blotchy face.

So he had been crying.

"Peter?" Charles asked in concern, leaning across his desk. "What's happened?"

Peter scrubbed at his wet cheek bitterly. "Nothing."

Charles waited patiently. He didn't feel it was necessary to remind the boy of his pertinent powers.

Eventually, Peter looked up with red-rimmed eyes and a scowl. "Fine." He stomped into the room and collapsed into one of the armchairs facing Charles's desk. "My life just sucks, OK?"

"You've had hardships," Charles agreed. "And you'll experience more as you age. It's natural—"

"No," Peter cut him off. "That stuff sucks, but I don't fit in anywhere. The kids at normal schools are normal. And even the kids that go here have normal hair and normal brains and normal dads. _I don't_."

Charles caught onto the end of his statement. So this was about Erik. "Peter, nobody is truly normal. Even those that attend these schools often have rocky relationships with their parents—"

"Really?" Peter snapped with a glare. "Their dads killed a president?"

" _What?_ " Charles stared in shock. How did Peter know that? He and Hank had always taken the precaution of never revealing what exactly Erik had done. It wasn't publicly available information.

Peter looked away, his lip quivering dangerously.

"Peter," Charles said, "did someone say something to you? About your father?"

"They said he's a terrorist," Peter choked out, a sob jumping out of the end of his sentence. "It was all over the news this summer! He killed JFK, and he's the worst kind of murderer there is." Peter cried and looked back to Charles. "They said that _I'm_ his kid so I'm just as bad."

" _Peter,_ " Charles harshly reprimanded, " _you are not bad._ Your father made a mistake. But he is not some sort of mass murderer that went on a killing spree."

"But I was there!" Peter cried. "We were in Texas when JFK was shot. It was my dad. And now he's in jail, and bad kids go to jail!"

Charles ran a hand down his face as his heart broke for this boy. But he refused to lie to him. "Your father did hurt someone. But he is paying penance for what he did. And his actions have nothing to do with you, Peter. You are ten times the man that he is."

Peter's face crumpled, and he looked to the opulent carpet.

"I'll be having a word with the other students," Charles said firmly. "They had no right to say such cruel, untrue things to you."

Peter's sobs had subsided, but his breathing was still erratic. "You said the kids here would be nice. But I'm still getting bullied at this school."

"You won't," Charles vowed. "I promise, this will never—"

But Peter was already out the door, two stories above.

 

* * *

 

_**February 1968, North Salem, New York** _

Charles had told Peter the same thing for months: Hang in there; it'll get better. Hang in there; it'll get better.

But it never got better. Kids like Walter and Russell teased his hair and parentage, even when Charles threatened to kick them out of his school. Charles tried to be sympathetic, and Hank tried to cheer him up, but they were usually busy. And Walter and Russell found a new nickname for Peter then: teacher's pet.

So he'd had enough. Mutants sucked. Normal kids sucked. His dad sucked, and life at the mansion sucked. It was time for Peter to leave.

In the busiest part of midday classes, Peter threw a packed duffel bag over his shoulder and sped out of the mansion, out of the grounds, and out of Westchester. The cold winds bit his face as he unnaturally ran through the New York winter.

Once he was safely out of New York, Peter stopped in a diner. He collapsed into a booth with a red face, and he ordered a giant stack of pancakes because to hell with it—he was independent now. He could do whatever he wanted.

And then when the waitress left to hand off his order, Peter zipped outside to use a payphone. He fished the coins from his pocket and dialed the number that he had memorized years before.

"Name?" a deep voice barked after the first ring.

"Uh." Peter fiddled with the zipper on his jacket. "Peter…?" He thought about throwing his last name out there, but that was his dad's name, and…

There was a pause.

"Peter," Emma Frost called sweetly over the phone. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

 

* * *

 

_**February 24, 1968, Miami, Florida** _

"Happy birthday, darling!" Emma called with a bright smile. She set a giant, fantastic birthday cake in front of the boy, twelve tall candles sparkling with flames.

Peter grinned at the huge cake. So what that he was technically turning eleven? He'd missed birthdays when he was stuck on that stupid island, so an extra candle on his cake was perfect.

Peter blew out the candles with a gusting breath. He wished… well, he didn't know what to wish for, so he just didn't wish.

Emma cheered, and Azazel grinned at him. Riptide and Angel were making out on the corner couch.

Emma whipped out a large knife and cut thick slices onto expensive plates. She handed one to Peter and took one for herself, leaving everyone else to fend for themselves.

"Thanks!" Peter grinned and dug into his cake. It was pretty good for a store-bought cake.

"Anything for the birthday boy," Emma said with a perfect smile.

Peter took another eager bite of cake. "I think I remember my dad trying to make a cake once, in that gross apartment in Milwaukee. Do you remember—" When Peter looked up, he realized that Emma and Azazel were already in a conversation, not listening to him.

Peter shrugged and finished off his cake; he didn't want to talk about his dad anyways.

And just as Peter was falling asleep in his plush bed that night, he thought he felt a foreign presence in his mind. A familiar presence, but an intruder all the same. But it vanished before Peter could pinpoint it.

Peter frowned, figuring out all too easily who it had been. He'd have to ask Emma in the morning how to block out telepaths.

 

* * *

 

_**January 1969, Teller's Bank, Massachusetts** _

It was just another bank robbery. Just another task that Emma had asked of him.

He hadn't really understood why the needed him to run around and disarm the guards when they had Azazel, but he didn't question them. They knew what they were doing.

So Peter shoved down each of the three armed guards that Emma had told him to: the one behind the counter, the one at the main entrance, and the one by the emergency exit.

Peter hadn't known there'd been four.

The shot rang out as Azazel reappeared with a bag full of cash. Before Peter could fully think it through, the bullet hit Peter in the stomach, splattering him with blood and shoving him to the floor.

Azazel and Emma glanced down at him. Azazel disappeared, killed the guard that had walked out from the backroom, and then reappeared beside his diamond-formed partner.

"Did you get the money?" Emma asked Azazel, her tone almost bored.

Peter's hands scrambled at his bleeding abdomen. Because he was bleeding out and in so much pain, and he didn't know what to do.

Azazel held up the money-stuffed bag in reply.

The bank's alarm began to blare.

"That's our cue," Emma said, taking Azazel's arm.

Peter lifted up his bloody fingers and touched Azazel's hand just in time. The three vanished out of the bank and reappeared in a side alley, five blocks south.

Emma and Azazel looked down at Peter as he dropped his hand.

"Why'd you bring him?" Emma asked Azazel apathetically.

"He grabbed me," Azazel replied, looking at the blood on his hand in disgust. He wiped it on Peter's pants.

"H-help," Peter gasped. His eyes darted frantically between the two.

"Your time is up, darling," Emma told him as she rifled through the bag of cash. "I let you stay because I thought I could get over the fact that you let my sister die. I thought maybe you'd be useful." She flickered a look to him. "Turns out I'm a vengeful bitch, and you're not as necessary as you thought you were."

Peter's wide eyes blinked.

Emma glanced at him, the movement making her diamond skin glisten. "I'm surprised that you trusted me at all, honestly. Didn't Daddy ever tell why he went to jail? He was too soft; I wanted him out of the club, so I hired another gunmen to assassinate JFK. I framed him for it, and I told him that if he didn't turn himself in, I'd kill you."

Peter opened his mouth, trying to form the word "what," but he ended up just gaping like a dying fish.

"I felt bad about that," Emma continued as she counted the money, "when we were in that prison. I almost developed a soft spot for you. But then you let my sister get murdered." She shoved the money into the bag and gave Peter a grim smile. "So now we're even."

"I, I didn't—" Peter stuttered, entirely in shock.

"What's the phrase?" Emma asked sweetly. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust?" She grinned to herself and then squinted in confusion. "Or was it something about eyes…?"

"Security footage is taken care of," Riptide announced as he turned the corner. Angel followed. Both looked at Peter with curious surprise.

Emma turned to her comrades with a thin smile and shrugged. "Turns out Peter wasn't actually all that useful." She grabbed Azazel's arm, as did the other two. Peter reached out with cold fingers, but the four disappeared before he could make contact.

In a snowy alleyway of eastern Massachusetts, Peter gasped choked breaths and bled into the street.

"Oh my god!" he heard distantly. "S-someone! Call the cops! Somebody, do something!"

Peter was too cold to listen when the sirens started screaming.

 

* * *

 

The cops let Peter get surgery. They let him stay sedated (even though the doctors said his sedatives wore off too quickly). They let him stay in the hospital until it was safe for him to leave.

Then they woke him up.

"You're going to have to come with us, son," the one with the mustache said, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. "You've been identified as the murderer of a bank guard."

Peter panicked. He didn't want to go to jail. He was bad, yeah, but he didn't mean to be! He didn't kill anyone! He hadn't even hurt anyone!

The police officer approached him with handcuffs.

But Peter flashed out of the hospital at a superhuman speed. He grabbed some clothes in his size from a store down the street, and he pulled them on in a back alley. And then he ran.

He made it a few cities over before he collapsed against the side of a grocery store. Breathing hard, he thought about his options: he couldn't run far without more food. And he didn't know where to run to anyways.

Emma's place in Miami was obviously out. That bitch.

Peter briefly considered going back to the mansion. But what would Charles say about his stealing and robbing and hurting people? And, even though it'd been almost a year, Peter remembered how unhappy he'd been at that place. So it was out.

So Peter didn't have a choice. He could do nothing but live on his own, stealing for food and living wherever the hell he wanted.

Because he had nothing else left to do.

 

* * *

 

_**December 1969, Albany, New York** _

He'd just wanted a hotdog for Christ's sake. Peter was just grabbing one (or five) from the street cart when the dude pulled out a mother-loving gun.

Who does that?

Mouth half-full and arms clutching four hotdogs, Peter zipped out of there—but not before the vengeful vendor got a shot off.

But it just scraped his arm, through and through. He'd already been shot and lived, like, twice now. This totally wasn't even bad.

Until it was. Three days later, Peter was sweaty and shaky and sick. Even in the winter of New York, Peter knew that he felt _too_ cold. He peeled open his coat and looked down at his scabbed arm. It was oozing and swollen and hot. It was infected.

Peter didn't know what to do. He couldn't go to the hospital—that vendor guy had probably reported him and his freaky fastness. The police probably linked him to the murder in that bank earlier this year. They'd trap him in the hospital and cart him off to prison, just like…

Peter grabbed a handful of snow off the ground and shoved it against his angry wound. He hissed at the contact and bit his lip.

This was so dumb. But at least he'd lived an eventful life, right? Like, his parentage could write a book all on its own. And then there was the X gene stuff, and everything at the mansion. And kidnappings and framings and shootings. And, just this past year, he'd secretly lived in a nunnery for, like, a month, dabbled in a couple of orphanages before he felt too bad for the other kids, and snuck into ten different amusement parks.

Peter had too dramatic of a life to let this little wound kill him. He told himself that he would be fine. He could wait this out.

Until he couldn't. By the next day, Peter was woozy and aching. He stumbled as he ran, and he knew he needed a doctor.

So these were his options: go to the hospital (and get arrested) or…

" _What in the bloody hell?_ "

"Hi, Charles," Peter mumbled when the front door opened. In his wheelchair, Charles hovered over him with an aghast expression. Peter stayed lying on the snowy, front porch steps. After running all the way here, he didn't think he'd ever be able to move again.

" _Hank!_ "

"Charles." Raven's playful voice drifted closer to Peter. "Was it not you who just chastised the students on using indoor voices?

"Oh, God," Raven choked out, having reached the front door.

Peter limply waved.

"Get him out of the snow," Charles said. Two sets of hands appeared and lifted him into the house.

"Hank…?" Peter squinted at the nerdy man carrying him in.

Hank frantically looked him over. "What happened, Peter?"

Peter woozily pointed a finger to his right shoulder. "Hotdog guy got me." Whatever they laid him on was soft.

Hands peeled away Peter's sleeve to expose his shoulder.

"Jesus," Charles choked out. Peter shivered.

"I need to get him to the lab," Hank announced as he scooped Peter back up. "His infection is deadly at this point." He walked to the elevator like Peter weighed nothing.

"You're so strong," Peter mumbled, letting his eyes drifted closed.

 

* * *

 

The students (and Alex) were all sent home the following day (or was it the day after?) for Christmas break.

"Lucky me gets all the attention," Peter muttered with a fake smile.

Charles sat beside Peter's bedside and glared. "You're an idiot."

Peter dropped the smile. This was the first real conversation he'd engaged in since he got here, and it was already pretty bad.

"Firstly, for running away."

"It sucked here," Peter defended lamely.

"Secondly," Charles continued, "for blindly following a team of ruthless super-humans."

"They were my dad's friends," Peter tried to counter, but now he knew the truth behind that one. His eyes pricked with tears, and his expression dropped.

Charles straightened. "What is it?"

Peter threw him a look. "You're not gonna butt into my head?"

"I try not to nowadays," Charles said. "But you're projecting your feelings of hurt and betrayal."

So Peter told him. He told him how Emma took care of him until he became too much of a reminder of what she'd lost.

"I knew that you'd parted ways," Charles murmured thoughtfully to himself. "I checked in on you weekly, of course. But I hadn't realized the reasoning behind the departure…"

"Charles," Peter said, latching onto his almost-uncle's arm. "Emma did more than that."

Charles waited with trepidation.

So Peter showed him. He pushed the memory of what Emma had said on an open mental platter for Charles.

After witnessing it, Charles reeled back into his chair, blinking at either Peter's bullet-fast mind or the memory itself. "Impossible."

"That's what I thought," Peter said. "I didn't really believe it ever since she told me that. But what if it's real? What if she actually did screw my dad over?"

Charles gave him a look for his choice in language but said, "I think she's a liar, Peter. Perhaps, she did want your father's position in the Brotherhood. Perhaps, she even threatened you so your father would turn himself in—the government was on a mutant witch-hunt after that day. But the bullet curved, Peter. Your father—"

"Is innocent."

Both men looked up as Raven strode into the room, wearing her natural blue form.

Charles narrowed his eyes at her. "What do you know, Raven?"

She kept a cool exterior as she leaned against Peter's bed, but her face hinted to her shame. "I was there in Texas that day. I saw Erik, and I cornered him. I wanted him to know what he'd done to you, and I'd heard mutant murmurings about a possible assassination—"

" _What,_ " Charles pressed through gritted teeth, " _do you know?_ "

Her yellow eyes looked to his. "Erik tried to save the president. He stopped the bullets heading for JFK, but someone snuck an extra shooter on the ground floor. Everyone saw Erik move those bullets… and they assumed…"

Charles's hands gripped the armrests of his wheelchair. His mental presence pressed in on Peter's head, and Raven clutched her own head. " _You knew_. You knew this whole time that Erik was _innocent_."

"I figured the world would be better without his megalomaniac ideas," Raven said fearfully, her blue fingers digging into her orange hair. "He didn't shoot the president, but he still hurt and betrayed you! I'm sorry, Charles."

"He hurt me _on accident!_ " Charles roared.

Raven cried out as she gripped her head.

Charles made himself relax back into his chair. He let his mental presence retract as he watched Raven straighten. "Get. Out."

Raven looked up with pleading eyes. "Charles, please—"

"GET OUT!" Charles shouted furiously.

Raven stumbled away from the bed. Peter gaped at her, and she threw him one final, sorrowful look before hurrying out of the room.

Charles leaned his elbows onto his knees and held his temples.

"So… my dad's… innocent," Peter breathed out.

"He's hardly innocent," Charles griped, not moving from his position. "But he isn't a terrorist."

"He turned himself in… for me," Peter realized that Emma was telling the truth. His dad did it all—for him.

"Because he's a bloody idiot," Charles snarled, leaning back and running his hands through his long hair.

"But he's, he's not bad!" Peter burst out in wonder. He glanced down at his scarred left wrist, feeling a mix of hope and affection and confusion. "How come he never escaped from prison? Aren't they made of metal?"

Charles looked almost guilty. "It doesn't matter. Your father has been in prison for nearly six years. I believe that he's paid penance for all of his crimes." His hand latched onto his chair's joystick, and he drove towards the door.

"So they're gonna release him?" Peter called. "Because he's not bad?!"

"No," Charles said over his shoulder. "We're going to break him out."

 

* * *

 

 ***"Finis" = Latin for "end"**  
**"Dorcha" = Irish Gaelic for "dark"**  
**"Vale" = Latin for "goodbye"**

****"United States Penitentiary, Marion" was opened in 1963 to replace the recently-closed Alcatraz. This maximum security federal prison housed America's most dangerous criminals of the time.**

*****" _Trudno naturę odmienić_ " roughly translates to "What is bred in the bone will not go out of the flesh" and relates to "Like father, like son."**

 


	4. Act 3: Resurgence & Retribution (Pt. 1)

**Firstly, I forgot to mention that the previous act was largely inspired by Birdy's cover of _White Winter Hymnal_.  Give it a listen, if interested.**

**Secondly, I split this final act into two parts for an easier read.  Where I split them has no significance other than it was roughly the halfway point of this monster of an act.**

**Lastly, I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH YOU'RE SO KIND AND I HOPE YOU LOVE THIS**

 

**Act 3: Resurgence & Retribution (Part 1)**

 

_**December 31, 1969, Arlington, Virginia** _

1,320 feet below the Pentagon, there was a prison cell. It was composed of concrete and industrial-grade polymers. It was heavily guarded. It was designed to contain the most powerful of mutants. And on New Year's Eve, it would be cracked open like an egg.

"No, Peter," Charles reprimanded with a slight sigh. "We're not cooking an omelet; we're performing a highly dangerous—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Peter cut him off. Charles had drilled him with all the facts that Moira had "let slip." (Honestly, Peter wondered how that woman hadn't lost her job with the CIA yet.) Peter knew a great deal about the Pentagon, what lay beneath it, and just how they would infiltrate it.

"You know, Professor," Hank said from the driver's seat, an electronic device in hand, "this extraction would be ten times easier with Raven. There's still time for her—"

"Even if she did agree to help the man she condemned to this hell," Charles cut him off crisply, "there isn't time; there's only a half hour to midnight."

"It doesn't _have_ to be midnight," Hank said. "Just because people will be most distracted at that time—"

Charles grabbed the device from Hank. "Out of the car, Henry."

Peter grinned at Hank's unamused expression; he loved it when someone else was in trouble.

Hank flipped a switch on the side of the device, and a black-and-white screen lit up. It would be ready to detonate when Charles pressed the large red button.

"Can you see through my mind?" Hank checked. Charles nodded.

 _Can you hear me?_ Charles checked in on both their minds.

 _CRYSTAL CLEAR,_ Peter mentally shouted back.

Charles jerked away instinctively, bringing fingers to his temples.

"You said to broadcast my thoughts so you wouldn't have to go into my mind!" Peter defended.

"Yes," Charles agreed with a thin smile, "just tone it back a notch next time, if you'd please."

Hank looked at his watch. "Twenty-eight minutes. Let's go." He pushed out of the car, and Peter followed.

"And, Peter?" Charles called.

Peter looked back into the dark car.

"Please don't overdo it," Charles kindly begged, bringing out his large, doe eyes. "You've only just recovered from your shoulder's infection—"

"I'm invincible, Professor X!" Peter flashed his winning smile and then flashed around the corner to join Hank.

"You seein' everything, Professor?" Hank murmured aloud.

 _Yes,_ Charles said to both of them. _Head in through the west wing's front entrance; it only has three guards tonight, and they're now sound asleep._

Sure enough, the two walked right through the entrance of the Pentagon, and all three guards were slumped unnaturally into sleep.

"Wicked!" Peter cheered with his grin.

_Go left._

Those words, from Charles's voice, in Peter's mind—it brought back memories. Memories that Peter preferred caged in a box underneath the bed of his mind. So that's where he shoved them when they rattled.

Peter grabbed the back of Hank's head (to prevent whiplash, which evidently, could be a consequence of moving as fast as Peter. Hank had learned that the hard way after practicing for tonight). The two sped through the left of the building and found an elevator right where Charles said it would be.

The door opened, and revealed a guard. The man snapped to attention as he caught sight of the mutants, hand flying to his gun.

At least, that's what Peter assumed he was trying to do. He didn't give him the chance to do more than twitch before Peter whipped a large roll of duct tape from the back of his gray jeans. In the time it took Hank to blink, the guard was heavily secured to the elevator's wall, tape over his mouth. Peter had even gone the extra mile, taping the word "loser" over the man's chest.

Peter stepped back, let time resume, and snickered at his handiwork.

"I thought we vetoed the duct tape," Hank said disapprovingly as he followed Peter into the elevator and pressed for the lowest level.

 _We did,_ Charles's stern voice said. _And now_ _I'll need to wipe his memories of you two_.

Peter watched in fascination as the guard's face screwed up in confusion and then slumped into unconsciousness. " _Totally_ wicked."

"Here's the resonance frequency sensors," Hank said, handing the three small circles to Peter. "You remember where to put them?"

Peter almost rolled his eyes. "You only told me three thousand times. As if I can't shatter the glass with my speediness." He wiggled a hand.

Hank gave him that teacher look. "And for the three thousandth time I'm telling you—you're still on the mend, and we're not wasting any more of your energy than we have to."

Peter grumbled at that.

"Just remember to tell Charles when you're ready for them to be activated."

Peter nodded.

 _Ready?_ Charles asked in Peter's head.

Peter nodded again, knowing that he could see through Hank's eyes.

 _Remember, only speed on your way out_ , Charles reminded him. _Walk slowly in so that I can shield you properly._

Peter nodded and quietly took a deep breath.

The elevator chimed.

_Good luck._

The elevator door opened. Ten guards waited at attention, five lined up on each side of the corridor. At the end of the hall was a large, open doorway.

Peter darted a final look at Hank's encouraging smile and then took a tentative step into the hallway. He shuffled forwards a bit, looking back and forth between the walls of armed men. Seriously—every guy here had a plastic gun loaded with plastic bullets.

 _They can't see you,_ Charles assured him. _Walk normally._

Peter forced himself into a typical person's pace and pretended that everyone just had those plastic water guns from Toys "R" Us. None of the guards so much as glanced at Peter. Just as he reached the doorway, Peter indulged in waving his hand directly in the last guard's face. No response. Peter grinned.

And then he turned to the doorway. His stomach painfully tightened with anticipation and a whole mix of emotions that he couldn't name. He stepped through it, noticing how dim it was. He walked further in, and he noticed the illuminated room below.

There. Right there, in the middle of that plastic-and-concrete-lined hole, was Erik Lehnsherr. He was lying on the bed with his arms behind his head, as if it was any other night. As if this wasn't one of the most pivotal nights of his entire existence.

Peter wasn't really sure what he was supposed to do. Sure, they trained and trained how they were going to break in and how they were going to break out. But they never talked about how Peter would get Erik's attention. Or what Peter would say to him once he busted his father out.

With panicked, wide eyes, Peter forced himself to just move. He dropped one of the resonance sensors on a glass window, and then one beside it, and then the third above so they formed a triangle.

He then looked to his father, realizing that he had to warn him against the soon-to-shatter glass.

Erik Lehnsherr was staring directly at Peter. Peter swallowed as those blue eyes, identical to his own, bore right into him with a honed intensity.

Peter gave his father a timid wave. Erik swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up and still staring with that piercing gaze.

 _Um..._ Peter motioned to put his hands over his ears.

Slowly, Erik mirrored the motions but kept his eyes on Peter.

 _DO THE THING!_ Peter mentally pushed to Charles. He turned away, putting his hands over his own ears. Distantly, glass shattered. And then a large, concrete slabbed dropped down where the doorway had been.

Peter forced himself to breathe normally; he was not confined here. He was not trapped in this prison. This was all a part of the plan.

A hand came down on his shoulder.

Peter whirled around at a superhuman speed. He looked up, realizing that either he hadn't grown as much as he'd thought or his dad was crazy tall.

"Pietro," Erik breathed. His blue eyes held a hint of disbelief.

Peter blinked. He hadn't heard that name in years. "H…hi!" He couldn't help but smile because his freaking dad was right here, standing in front of him, _right here in front of him!_

Erik's hands grabbed the back of Peter's silver-haired head and the center of his back before yanking him towards him.

Peter had a lot of issues that he wanted to throw at his father. Peter was pretty pissed that his dad had let himself end up under the Pentagon in the first place. But, right then, he was being hugged by _his dad._ He'd have to be braindead to not hug him back with everything he had.

As they pulled apart, Erik began mumbling to himself in German. While Peter's German had gotten seriously rusty in recent years, he caught words like "my God" and "insane children."

Peter grinned at the last part.

 _Ten seconds until the door opens,_ Charles tossed into Peter's mind.

"We gotta go," Peter said, grabbing his dad's arm and dragging him towards the sealed doorway.

Erik began pushing his son behind him. "You reckless child. Stay behind me."

Peter gave him a smug grin, a little smile that said "I know more than you do."

Erik narrowed his parental eyes at his son.

The concrete slab slid up, exposing the doorway.

"Freeze!" one of the ten guards shouted from their staggered, ready-to-shoot positions.

Whipping into super-speed, Peter reached up to support the back of his father's head. Huh. He realized that he probably should have made his dad crouch for this. Gently, Peter pushed on the back of his father's knees so he could reached the giant man's melon.

And then they shot off, flying past the guards and knocking each and every one off of their feet.

The two landed in the elevator a second later as Charles set to work on erasing the past minute's memories from the guards. With his knees bent during their flight, Erik collapsed to his hands and knees as soon as they entered the elevator. He remained there, trying to control his breathing and nausea.

With a dazed grin, Peter staggered and caught onto the wall for support. He was using all of his recovered energy on tonight, but it was _so worth it_.

Hank looked between the two with wide eyes and hit the elevator button. He looked stunned that any of this had actually worked.

"That was awesome," Peter said excitedly. "That was totally wicked, right? Like, did you see how those guards _flew_ when I ran past them?!" He sagged against the wall and closed his eyes with a large smile.

From the floor, Erik was gripping the wall and hauling himself up to his feet. As soon as he was upright, he took a settling breath, and turned to face the others. He glanced at the duct taped, unconscious guard before looking to Peter.

Peter caught the look and grinned mischievously.

Erik glanced to his left and did a double take. He hadn't realized that anyone else was aboard their lift, let alone a familiar face.

Hank brought back his fist and slammed it into Erik's face.

Erik fell to the floor in shock, and Peter stared at them in shock, but no one was more shocked than Hank himself. "Oh, God!" Hank hurried to help up the metal-bender. "I'm so sorry! I, I have Charles in my head, and he must've just reacted—"

Erik stood and held up a please-stop-talking hand. Peter had missed that hand.

The elevator doors slid open, and Peter reached towards the men's heads.

"I don't think we'll need the speed," Hank cut him off, turning a bit green at the idea.

"We'll walk," Erik agreed hurriedly.

Peter frowned.

Erik grabbed onto his son's arm, and the three bustled (or crawled in slow motion to Peter) out of the elevator.

The three guards remained asleep as the mutants made their escape out of the building.

Hank led the way towards the black car parked alongside the street.

"I wanna drive!" Peter volunteered, pulling forwards.

Erik pulled his son back to him so that his son could see his horrified, reprimanding look.

"For the last time," Hank said with a pointed finger, "over my dead body."

Peter scowled and crawled into the backseat. As Hank took the driver's seat, Erik faltered. He didn't know if he should follow his son into the back or slide into the passenger's seat. He looked to the passenger's side and made eye contact in the side view mirror with the man already occupying that seat.

 _Get in,_ the telepath ordered.

Erik obeyed. The car roared to life, and Hank took off just as Erik flicked his hand to make the metal door close. He'd missed using his powers.

The car became tense. Peter looked at his father, at Charles, at Hank. They all seemed entirely focused on staring ahead. Peter decided to do likewise. Outside of the car, the sky began erupting with fireworks and cheers.

Peter pressed his nose to the window to watch the New Year's spectacle for their short drive. He was almost enjoying himself.

Until they missed the turnoff for the airport.

"Uh, Hank?" Peter said. "The airport was back there."

"We're not flying back, Peter," Charles said crisply. "It'll draw too much unwanted attention."

With horrified eyes, Peter looked to the speedometer. "How long is the drive?" The indicator limply hovered over sixty-five miles an hour.

"Five hours," Hank responded.

" _Five hours?!_ " Peter cried. He'd have to sit still in this cramped box for _five hours?_ His breathing sped as he thought about that. That was a _long time_ in a confined space. It felt like a prison, being this cramped. Like… like…

 _Deep breaths,_ Charles privately coached the boy. _In and out…_

Peter forced himself to follow Charles's instructions.

Beside Peter, Erik was staring. He watched his son hyperventilate at Hank's words until he finally laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Pietro?"

Peter blew out a sturdy, final breath and looked to his dad. "What?" He could feel Erik's piercing gaze dig into his skin, trying to understand the underlying meaning of Peter's calming panic. And that was not something Peter wanted to delve into right now.

"I could help you to sleep…" Charles looked back at Peter, motioning his hand to his temple.

"Absolutely not," Erik cut in through gritted teeth, not giving Peter the chance to respond. His glare settled on the telepath. "You will not be invading—"

Erik's eyes rolled back, and he slumped against the car door.

Peter looked at his father with wide eyes and then at Charles.

Charles glanced back and bitterly grumbled, "I'm not quite ready to listen to his anti-telepathy nonsense."

Peter smiled at that. "Uh, I guess sleeping might help."

Charles gave him a slightly-forced, affirming smile and raised his fingers to his temple.

 _Then sleep,_ Charles's soothing voice echoed into Peter's mind.

And so Peter did.

 

* * *

 

When Peter awoke, it was dawn of the next day, and he was in his bed at the mansion. Which meant that Charles's magic was really strong because Peter's active body only ever needed five hours of sleep.

He wasn't surprised to find himself in his bed. Peter's body _shut down_ when he was asleep, so Hank could've carried him into a volcano, and he'd be none the wiser. Peter accepted that it'd probably get him into trouble one day.

Using the stored energy that hours of uninterrupted sleep brought him, Peter jumped out of bed and rolled his joints. He smiled as he remembered yesterday. He'd busted a prisoner out of the _freaking Pentagon._

Who was his dad. His dad was here. Peter's smile faltered at the feelings of nervousness and anticipation. He wasn't sure what this all meant.

Peter shoved the feelings down, deciding to meet the situation head-on by zooming down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Charles was blearily nursing a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. He blinked up at Peter. "Why am I unsurprised to see you here at," he checked his watch, "five fifty-three?"

"Is my dad up?" Peter asked with a grin, zooming around the kitchen. "Where's Hank?" He grabbed a carton of orange juice and five eggs from the fridge before kicking it shut. He slammed open the bread box and fished out two slices of wheat. He zipped over to snatch the butter dish, and then some silverware, before gently dropping everything onto the island. "And how come you're up?"

"It's rather early for speed questioning, Peter," Charles said, rubbing his forehead and rolling towards the island. He set down his mug and pointed to the boy. "You may use the toaster and toaster only."

Peter became confused. "How do I cook an egg in a toaster?"

"You don't." Charles grabbed a frying pan from a low cabinet and ignited the stove burner. "Would you like them in an omelet, sunny-side up—"

"Scrambled!" Peter declared with a dark grin.

Charles glanced at him and focused on Peter's grin with a frown. "Alright. You cook your toast. I'll take care of the eggs."

Peter zipped around in obedience. The kitchen held an air of comfortable silence as the men cooked separately.

As soon as Peter's toast was buttered, Charles slid five scrambled eggs onto the boy's plate.

"Thanks!" Peter said, digging in immediately.

Charles nodded and returned to his coffee.

Overhead, a resonating thud shook the ceiling. As Peter looked up, a loud crash echoed from above.

"Your father is awake," Charles noted dryly, taking another sip of his bitter drink. "And he's not thrilled about his forced slumber."

Peter tried to smile at that, but he was too nervous. And wasn't that weird? Why would being around his dad make him nervous?

Erik's thunderous steps clattered down the staircase. He stormed through the foyer and straight into the kitchen. He threw a murderous look to Charles before his eyes roamed over Peter. "Go get your things."

Halfway through his breakfast, Peter stopped eating. "What?"

"We're leaving," Erik said crisply. Which was a little weird because he was trying to be authoritarian while wearing a prisoner's jumpsuit.

"What?! I don't—" Peter cried at the same time Charles protested with "Erik, you're being irrationally—"

"Don't you tell me what I am!" Erik snapped at Charles with a pointed finger. "You don't get to play God with my mind and then tell me I'm being irrational."

"I rescued you from that prison!" Charles shot back with narrowed eyes. "If my intention was to turn your brains inside out, believe me, I would've gladly done so by now."

"And why should I trust that?" Erik demanded. "I don't know your motivation behind my extraction—"

"And, frankly, neither do I!" Charles shouted.

"Which is why my son and I are leaving, effective immediately," Erik said sharply. "Pietro, say your goodbyes."

"Hey!" Peter protested with a furrowed brow. "I'm not leaving!"

 _That_ caught the adults' attentions. While Charles looked on, Erik turned to his son with a slow, firm stare.

"You haven't even been here!" Peter protested. "I've been taking care of myself for years, so you can't just come in and rip me away from the home I've made!"

Charles looked impressed, but Erik looked sinisterly calm. "I won't ask you again, Pietro."

Peter had just about had enough of his father's disciplinary threats. He was ready to go grab his stuff and leave, all on his own.

"That won't be necessary, Peter," Charles said, fingers to his temple. "Please, sit down."

"Don't contradict me," Erik hissed at Charles.

Charles glared harshly right back. "I'm preventing your son from running away. Or, perhaps, you would like to go chasing him across the country?"

Erik's sharp, questioning gaze turned on Peter.

Peter pouted and crossed his arms. "I'm not gonna _run away_. I was just thinking about taking a few laps…" Around the country…

"Please, sit," Charles pressed the boy as he rolled up to the kitchen table. Peter grumpily obeyed. Charles looked politely up to Erik. "Would you please join us?"

Erik looked between the two of them with a scowl before dropping into the seat beside Peter.

Peter glanced at his dad. His heart sped, seeing the man this close to him. He hated that this made him thrilled. Because Erik had left _him_. Erik didn't deserve Peter's enthusiastic affection… right?

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" Charles inquired. "Erik, the three of us helped you escape from prison because we recently learned of your innocence in the matter. Had we known of your true verdict sooner, I would like to believe we would have acted sooner."

Erik stretched his balled hands onto the table. "So you know what happened, then." He glanced at Peter.

Peter scowled at the table.

"Yes," Charles said. "Emma let it slip."

The metal in the kitchen rattled. "You've been in contact with her?"

Charles looked fleetingly at Peter, but Erik caught the gaze; he looked to Peter immediately.

"You've missed a lot in recent years," Charles told Erik calmly. "Perhaps, we can start from the beginning."

Erik grit his teeth and focused on not melting every bit of metal in this mansion. "They'll know I've broken out by now. It's not safe for Peter and I here. Not anymore."

" _I don't want to leave,_ " Peter told his father angrily.

"You may not care for your own welfare, Pietro," Erik snapped, "but I do. If we don't—"

"Are you kidding me?" Peter spouted in disbelief. "You ditched me for six years—"

The metal rattled. "I did not _ditch_ you! I was protecting you—"

"Well, you did a fan-fucking-tastic job at that!" Peter shouted. Charles and Erik stared at him in unholy horror. Peter rolled up his shirt sleeve and exposed his scarred, left wrist. "I didn't have your stupid _link_ to protect me back then. I sure as crap don't need you now."

Erik looked like he'd been slapped in the face. His hands shot out and latched onto the boy's left forearm, dragging it closer for inspection. Erik's eyes roamed over the lines and lines of scars, there mentally tracing just how the bracelet had been forcibly gnawed off the flesh.

Peter's heart felt thick and ashamed at his father's guilty frown. Peter zipped to the other side of the kitchen before either men could blink. "Don't worry about it," Peter mumbled to his father. "It doesn't matter anymore." And then Peter vanished from sight.

Erik immediately leapt to his feet and called, "Pietro!"

Charles waved a weary hand. "He's in his room, Erik. He's perfectly fine."

"He damn well is not fine!" Erik spat back, banging a fist on the table. "He doesn't speak with childhood innocence. His damn wrist is—" He stopped himself to take a deep breath through his nose when the fridge groaned and the frying pan on the stove warped.

"I don't know how long it will take for him to open up to you," Charles said plainly. "But I believe that that child needs his father right now, and you cannot be the best father possible if you do not understand your son."

"He'll talk to me," Erik said assuredly, thinking back to the boy he had known all those years before.

Charles gave him a disbelieving look. "Alternatively, I was thinking I could _show_ you Peter's past few years."

Erik frowned down at the telepath. He didn't like his mind meddled with.

Charles rolled his eyes. "But if you believe your pride is first priority, rather than your child's emotional wellbeing, by all means—"

Erik slammed himself down into the chair across from Charles. "Show me, then."

Charles raised a hand and then hesitated. "Perhaps, I should warn you about the major plot details—"

"Show me," Erik ground out with narrowed eyes.

So Charles raised his fingers to his temple and showed Erik all that he had missed.

 

* * *

 

Peter had avoided his parental guardians all morning. Any time he thought he heard footsteps or wheels rolling, he bolted to the opposite side of the mansion. Because he did not want to have any of the conversations that those two wanted to have.

But a growing boy could only stay away from food for so long. So by noon, Peter was preparing six ham and cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches.

Footsteps and a yawn sounded behind him, and Peter whirled around with his mayonnaise-covered butter knife. (Because who wouldn't hesitate to stab their father with a blunt object if _feelings_ were about to be discussed?)

Hank held up his hands and gave Peter a confused look. "Good morning…?"

Peter returned to sandwich-making. "Hey."

"Why were you ready to stab me with mayonnaise?" Hank asked as he padded over to the fridge. He ruffled his bedhead hair and rifled through the shelves.

"Because I'm not gonna have a heart-to-heart with Cherik," Peter grumbled.

Hank shut the fridge and gave the boy a curious look. "Cherik?"

"It's a new way to talk about their collectively parentalness at the same time."

Hank raised understanding eyebrows before stopping in front of the stove. He held up the warped, dirty frying pan from earlier that morning. "Wow. I have not missed living with a metal-bender."

Peter shoved the lid back on the mayonnaise and tossed the sandwich ingredients back into the fridge. "If Cherik asks, you haven't seen me, ok?"

Hank manhandled the frying pan back into its (roughly) proper shape and gave the boy a nod. "You do realize the only reason you haven't been frozen to the spot is because Charles hasn't wanted to stop you, right?"

Grabbing all six sandwiches, Peter muttered, "Just play it cool" and dashed out into the snowy backyard.

It wasn't snowing today, but it was pretty cold. Peter figured he could hide out here for a solid hour before his limbs would cry to go back inside. So Peter plopped down onto a snow-covered bench by the frozen pond and started in on the sandwiches stacked on his lap.

He sighed after the fifth. Really, what was the point in eating if the meal didn't conclude with a Twinkie or a Ding Dong?

"Pietro?"

Halfway through his last sandwich, Peter jolted and choked. He coughed against the bite, ready to zip out of there. But when he went to move his feet, he found that they were frozen—and not in a way that anything to do with the cold.

"I don't approve of Charles's methods," Erik said with his arms behind his back, "but I felt that these… _restraints_ were necessary."

Peter collapsed against the bench in defeat. Stupid Cherik with their stupid parental ideas.

Erik lowered himself onto the bench beside Peter. "Firstly, I would like to point out that sneaking into the Pentagon was reckless and idiotic. I've already spoken to Charles about your reckless endangerment, but if I find out that you do anything like it again—"

While breaking into the Pentagon seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime thing, Peter found himself protesting, "But what if _Charles_ got kidnapped and—"

" _Never again_ , Pietro," Erik told him sternly. "For _anyone_."

Peter scowled at the snowy grounds and tested his still-restrained feet. "You're welcome."

"Thank you for your bravery," Erik said in lieu of commendation.

"Can I go now?" Peter pleaded desperately.

"We're not finished," Erik replied. His eyes zeroed in on Peter's frame. "But we may move indoors; you're too scrawny to be sitting out in the cold."

"I'm not scrawny!" Peter cried indignantly. He held up one arm to flex his bicep. "I call this one Hostess." He held up the other. "And this one's Little Debbie."

Erik rolled his eyes. "Let's step inside."

"Nooooo," Peter groaned. "If you're gonna bit—" Erik's steely eyes narrowed. "—terly say stuff, let's just do it."

Even if Charles wasn't mentally trapping Peter, Erik's honed gaze could. "Pietro, I am not here to ' _bitterly say stuff_.' We need to discuss… what's happened."

Peter bit his lip and went back to staring at the snow.

"Do you like living here?" Erik asked gently.

Peter thought about that. "I didn't before. But that's because some kids sucked. But I…" He looked questioningly up at his father. "How much do you know?"

"Everything," he replied solemnly.

 _Everything_. Peter swallowed at that. "Anyways, I came back because I was, like, dying. And I like it here because a sucky place with family is better than a cool place with no family. So."

Erik's hand rested warmly on his son's shoulder. "You'll always have family with you, Pietro. No matter where we choose to go."

Peter kind of smiled at that. "I like it here. It's where our family has been together the most, so it feels the most like home."

Erik huffed. "And how would you feel if we were to leave?"

"Well, we wouldn't have all of our family." Peter looked up at Erik. "Charles is a part of our family, too."

Erik blinked, and Peter found that he could mostly move his feet. Still, he remained grounded to the bench.

Erik muttered a Russian curse under his breath and rubbed his face. "Emma Frost will be targeting us more than ever, Pietro. I'm worried we'll be sitting ducks here."

Peter scowled. "I'm not afraid of her. I can take down all of those stupid traitors if they come here."

" _No,_ " Erik said sharply. "Mother of God—did we not just discuss your reckless endangerment?"

"You said I can't break anyone else out of the Pentagon! What does protecting myself from Emma have to do—"

"There is a line," Erik said, cutting the air with his flexed hand, "that divides protecting oneself and pointlessly endangering oneself. Do not cross beyond the side of protection, Pietro. Do not even toe it."

Peter's face scrunched as he thought about that. "Like… vengeance?"

Erik's expression clouded with a self-made darkness. "Vengeance. And sadism, and greed for power."

Peter somewhat followed, but this was all pretty abstract for him.

Erik turned to fully face his child. "I was a victim to vengeance. I chose to go after Shaw, and it tore apart everything I held dear. That was because I pursued stopping others; it wasn't defense. Do you see the difference?"

Peter squinted. "I… guess…"

Erik sighed into his palm. "My prison years have made me philosophical."

Peter looked at his shoes. "So… are we done talking now?"

Erik barked a laugh and turned his unamused smile on Peter. (That smile had too many teeth; it made his father look like a shark.) "No. I want to hear every detail of your life since I last saw you."

Peter knew it would be hopelessly naïve to assume Erik was referring to earlier that morning. "Wait. So did you kill JFK?"

Erik gave him a dead stare. "JFK was a mutant; what do you think?"

Peter's eyes widened, and he mouthed "holy shit."

Erik's glare narrowed in. "And if your cursing is not curbed within the week, you will be happy to help clean the mansion whenever Charles or I ask."

Peter's eyes lit up. "So we're gonna stay?!"

"Unfortunately, we have allies here," Erik said, resigned. "Even if they aren't deserved."

Peter grinned. And shivered.

"Let's continue this conversation inside," Erik said, rising off the bench. When Peter stood, he wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders. "You've gotten taller."

"But I'm still short for my age," Peter grumbled. "Hank keeps giving me food and protein shakes to help me reach a growth spurt with my weird-fast metabolism, but I kinda suck at keeping the protein shakes down ever since…" Images of his years with Stryker flashed in his mind, and his voice became too hollow to use.

Erik's stiffening hand on his shoulder was both comforting and foreboding. But he decided not to press it. "So I believe I told you to stay in that abandoned warehouse and to wait for Charles. What happened then?"

Peter blinked, trying to remember what had happened a lifetime ago. "Well, you stuck me to the wall. And then Emma came. And she had Azazel zap me out of it. And because I had no fu…ndamental way of knowing that you guys weren't friends, I believed them when they said they were there to help me."

"Never trust telepaths," Erik grumbled darkly as they reached the backdoors of the mansion. He held it open for Peter and then followed him in.

"So I stayed with them in Florida for a couple of weeks, and they were super nice to me," Peter recounted as they walked down to the private TV room.

Erik's brow furrowed at that statement.

"But then I wanted to look for you," Peter explained. "Because nobody told me where you'd gone. Including you." He glared at Erik and then walked into the TV room. He plopped onto one of the plush, massive couches.

Erik followed his son onto the couch, using his powers to rotate the door's hinges and shut it. "I should have when I turned myself in. I'm sorry for that. I was… afraid of what Emma might do to you if she knew that you were spreading slander about her to others."

"Yeah, well," Peter continued, staring at the couch's dark fabric, "I looked for you. For weeks."

Erik's expression became taut. "How did you live?"

Peter's face tightened in concentration. "I don't remember. Begging for food, I guess. I remember sleeping on that suitcase you gave me every night."

The metal hinges and handle on the door, the metal light fixtures, the metal screws in the TV stand, the TV itself—all of them vibrated angrily.

Peter looked up in wonder. He'd always thought that his dad's powers were kind of the best.

"Please, continue," Erik requested once he regained control of himself.

And so Peter did.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Charles rolled into the TV room. He found Erik and Peter stretched out, side-by-side, Erik's arm around his son. Both of the silent men had tear tracks down their blotchy cheeks.

Charles cleared his throat, causing both to look up. "Hank has a shake for you, Peter."

Peter scowled. "I don't need those anymore."

"You'll have to convince Dr. McCoy of that yourself," Charles said, holding up defenseless palms.

Peter groaned and vanished from the room.

The room became instantaneously too tense. "Well. I'm happy that you were able to sit him long enough for a proper conversation." Charles began to roll out of the room.

"Thank you," Erik said quietly, making Charles pause. "For helping him listen to me. And for being there for him when I was not. I'll never manage to thank you enough for that."

Charles gave a stiff nod. "I love him as if he were my own. I will always do all I can for Peter."

Erik swallowed. "Then, perhaps, we'll take you up on your previous offer of letting us stay. If it still stands."

Charles cast a brief, appreciative look over his shoulder. "Of course. However, I won't permit you to leach off of me any longer."

Erik patiently waited.

Charles turned just enough so he could watch Erik's reaction as he said, "Congratulations, Professor Lehnsherr. Class begins a week from Tuesday."

Erik's expression clouded over instantly (which rather pleased Charles). "I have no experience with children, Charles."

"I believe Anya and Peter would beg to differ."

Erik's steely eyes became dangerous. "If this is a monetary concern—"

Charles snorted. "This is a faculty concern; I doubt these mutants' parents would like a strange man loitering around their children's school."

Erik crossed his eyes. "And I doubt these parents would like a notorious assassin teaching at their children's school."

"Accept the position, and I will convince the parents otherwise," Charles responded. "I've been told I can be quite persuasive."

Erik almost frowned. "And if I were to accept this position, what would I be teaching?"

"An art position has been recently vacated," Charles said, grinning at how much he knew Erik would detest teaching children to experiment in art.

And he was right; Erik immediately glowered.

Charles's smile was good-natured. "I've seen your mind, Erik; you're a genius. You can teach anything you desire to focus on." He considered that. "Well, other than the areas that are already being taught. I teach science and literature, Hank teaches math and engineering, and Alex teaches PE and woodworking. But I would be more than happy to switch—"

"I thought you were teaching Pietro German."

"Raven was. She—"

"Figures," Erik scoffed. "I'll be taking over German. And you don't believe the students need to learn history, then?"

"Raven liked to call her class 'Art History.' They learned while making correlating art pieces."

Erik rolled his eyes. He had never been an appreciator. "I'll take it over, without the art."

" _Aw_ ," Peter whined in disappointment, appearing between the two men. "Her class was the best one!" Feeling both men's glares, Peter quickly amended, "Not that yours don't rock, Charles. Or that you won't rock, Dad." He looked between the two before darting to the couch on the other side of the room.

"We look forward to your contribution, Erik," Charles said crisply. Erik gave a nod.

"Hey, Charles, can I teach art?" Peter asked as he fiddled with an electronic handheld device.

"Of course," Charles responded. "You can have an after-school position. Your salary will go towards your room and board." He grinned at the boy.

Peter stuck his tongue out at him and went back to messing with the device.

The metal in the device sang out to Erik. He narrowed his eyes on it. "What is in your hands, Pietro?"

"Um…"

A floor below, a resounding explosion vibrated through the walls of the mansion.

Peter's eyes widened. "Shit." At the parental looks, he panicked and spat, "I meant shoot! I still have a week!" He zapped out of the room.

Erik and Charles shared a look and then hurried out of the TV room.

Hank charged down the hallway towards them, an angry expression coloring his skin blue. " _Have you seen Peter?_ "

"What has he done?" Erik demanded.

"He took off with the remote control activator of the core to a ray gun I was building! And then he shot the damn thing off!"

"Are you alright?" Charles asked, looking his friend over.

"No!" Hank ranted, pointing at his left eyebrow—or what was remaining of it. "The stupid thing singed off half of my eyebrow!"

Peter's snickering echoed around the mansion.

Hank balled his fists, turning noticeably bluer as he looked around for the twerp.

"I'll speak with him," both Erik and Charles assured Beast at the same time. The men turned to each other with similarly suspect looks.

"If I catch you in my lab without my permission, I'm going to double your math homework for a month!" Hank shouted at the mansion.

Charles cringed. In his studies of child development, he knew that that particular punishment was a strong deterrent for genuine learning.

But Peter appeared in front of them before Charles could say so. With a wicked grin, the boy taunted, "You'd have to have to actually be able to catch me for that." And then he vanished with a trail of laughter.

Hank's eye twitched.

"Your lab will be safe from his hands," Erik assured Beast as his eyes ghosted over the direction his son had gone.

Hank huffed. "He should be able to stop the protein shakes in a few days. If he keeps these down."

Erik didn't move, so Charles nodded and thanked the doctor.

Hank marched back down to his lab, leaving the two to silence.

"Your fears are warranted," Charles said softly, "but his bouts with PTSD are rare these days."

Erik snapped his head in Charles direction and grimaced. "Stay out of my head."

Charles's stare was stoic. "You're projecting; I can hardly help overhearing just as you could hardly help hearing a scream."

Erik scowled and turned away. Charles rolled his eyes and began to roll away.

… _until things return to how they used to be…_

Charles stopped rolling to scoff at the overheard thought. "You're more naïve than I've been led to believe if you honestly see our lives returning to how they used to be." When Erik didn't respond, Charles brought his hand down on his joystick and rolled out of the hallway.

 

* * *

 

_**January 1970, North Salem, New York** _

Time flew by in a flurry of uneventfulness. Peter noticed that Cherik spent the majority of their time actively avoiding each other; Charles was always in his study, and Erik was always in his bedroom. The only time that the parental unit came together was for meals.

"Did you ever actually _apologize_ to Charles?" Peter asked one day as he swung across the bedposts of Erik's bed.

Erik gave him a disgruntled look before returning to marking a map spread across his desk. "Of course I did."

"With, like, flowers?"

Erik's head snapped up at that.

Seeing his father's honed look, Peter quickly said, "What?! I know you guys were, like, _a thing_ back in the day."

Erik scowled. "We didn't tell anyone."

Peter gave him a look. "I was four, not stupid."

Erik slowly returned to his work on the map. "Flowers are given with an intent of romantic affection; I have no inclination to do so with Charles."

Peter gave him a roguish smirk. "You sure?"

Erik glared at his son. "I crippled him, Pietro. I abandoned him. And then to top it all off, I demanded that he raise my child." He turned his glare to his map. "This is how things are; another apology isn't going to resurrect a relationship, romantic or otherwise."

Peter pouted at that. Still, he wouldn't give up his dim hope that his parents would be unstoppable together. He swung to the other bedpost.

"Stop swinging off of that before you hurt yourself," Erik ordered. He circled a spot on the map.

With a dramatic sigh, Peter did a final spin off the bedpost and landed on the carpet. He then zipped over to his father and studied the map. It covered the north eastern states, detailing connecting highways and major cities. A few of the cities were circled. "Whatcha workin' on?"

Erik turned his parental stare on him. "I'm working. Have you had a protein shake recently?"

Peter paled and unenthusiastically fiddled with the drawer of the mahogany desk. "Hank said I didn't have to take 'em anymore."

Erik set his pencil down, put his hand on Peter's shoulder, and sat against the desk. "You won't have to take them for that much longer, Peter. Just until your body has reached its healthy weight."

Peter scowled. " _I'm fine_." He had taken care of himself for years, after all.

But Erik, of course, knew that wasn't true. He had heard the details of Peter's past few years two times over. "I've found that when I talk about what's plaguing me with someone I love and trust, I feel… eased."

Peter glanced towards the exposed numbers tattooed on his father's forearm. "I already did talk about it."

"I know." Erik ran a hand through Peter's silver hair. "But if you ever want to tell me again, I will listen."

Peter stared at the carpet and considered that.

"Go find Hank," Erik said, patting his son's shoulder and returning to his map.

Peter pressed his lips together but zipped out to find Dr. McCoy.

 

* * *

 

And then school started, that week from Tuesday. All of the students returned to the mansion, and all were surprised to find a swap in professors.

Especially when the replacement was an unparalleled killer.

"They all think he's super scary, so they totally respect me," Peter rambled as he sat on the edge of Charles's desk and swung his feet.

Charles was busy filling out another letter to parents, explaining that Professor Lehnsherr was an innocent victim of mutant persecution; their children were perfectly safe with him aboard. It was moments like this when he wondered why on earth he was housing Erik Lehnsherr again.

"But I think they'd still respect me now because I have street cred. And I can totally steal their wallets before they even see me comin'."

Peter's speed kicking was rattling Charles's desk, making writing rather difficult. Taking a calming breath through his nose, he asked the boy, "Perhaps, Erik would enjoy your company after the third day back at school?"

Peter shook his head. "Nah, he's busy. He said I should come see what you were doin'."

Of course. Because Erik was the one running a school and teaching and responding to letter after letter complaining about him. Charles resisted the urge to roll down to him and chuck something at his head.

"Are you writing letters?" Peter asked, nosily peeking at his work. "Got a secret pen-pal?" He grinned mischievously.

Charles spared him an almost amused smile. "Peter, have you completed all of your homework for the day?"

He scoffed. "It took me, like, ten minutes."

"Would you like more?" Charles raised an eyebrow.

Peter could take a hint. With a pout, he clambered off the desk and slowly trudged towards the door. "Fine. I'll just go find someone else that appreciates my wit and charm."

Charles smiled and returned to his letter. "Stay on the grounds, please."

Peter rolled his eyes, muttering, "…zaps the fun out of everything…"

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Peter was rifling through Hank's lab. Because if he found another one of those ray gun explosion things, he could totally make all the girls scream at breakfast tomorrow morning.

And then Peter heard Hank stomping around the corner.

In a panic, Peter looked around for somewhere to hide. He saw a set of silver drawers over at the other end of the medical area. He bolted to them and pulled one open. It was long and deep. It was for dead bodies! (And perfect for hiding!)

Peter pulled a long drawer open, scrambled onto the slab, and then pulled his drawer closed.

He laid in the dark, listening to Hank's old man shoes squeak across the tile, just outside of the drawers. Peter evened out his breathing and tried to relax—at least until he realized that he was in an enclosed space. He was trapped in here. He pressed his hands against the freezing metal, realizing he couldn't even fully extend his arms in here.

Tears pricked at his eyes, and he pressed his hands against his coffin. Instinctively, he kicked against the metal and beat at it with his fists. Because he couldn't be trapped in here. He couldn't live in here. He couldn't… He couldn't…

The drawer was yanked open, and Peter found himself blinking tears away as fluorescent lights flooded his vision.

"Peter, what the hell!" Hank's hands were on his shoulders, trying to calm his twitching, shuddering body.

"It… it was too small," Peter murmured, his voice breaking on the final word. He pushed the backs of his hands across his wet cheeks.

"First of all," Hank said when Peter had calmed, "you can't go through my lab and then try hiding; I can smell and hear you, you idiot. Secondly, don't hide in a refrigerator, for Christ's sake."

Peter nodded hurriedly as his tears finally stopped. He pushed the wetness away.

"Come on," Hank said, hefting the boy out of the drawer. When Peter stood on stable feet, Hank asked, "Why were you even in here?"

"Uh… looking for you." Peter looked up at him with innocent, wet eyes.

Hank cut him a break. "Well, I've got work to do. Jean's powers have been erratic lately, and I was hoping to study her X gene with the Professor."

Peter frowned. Everyone was always so busy. "Fine."

"Why don't you go see what Gabe is up to?"

Peter gave him a look of disbelief. "He's, like, eleven!"

"And you're, like, twelve." Hank shut the refrigerator drawer and then headed over to a glass refrigerator. He opened it and began pulling out vials of blood.

"He's probably hanging out with his brothers," Peter grumbled. "Why didn't _my_ dad decide to have more kids? I wanna sibling."

Hank threw him a slightly horrified look before marking on the blood samples. "Either way, I'm busy, kid. Maybe you could go join the Summers in whatever they're doing."

Peter huffed and sped out of the room. He appeared at Gabe's door, knocking quickly before letting himself in.

Gabe looked up before returning to his math homework. "Hey, Peter."

Peter looked over Gabe's shoulder at the homework. "Ha. That stuff's so easy."

Behind his bulky glasses, Gabe glowered at Peter. "Then why don't you do it?"

Peter quieted after that. He didn't want to face Charles's wrath when they got caught for cheating. Or his father's.

When Gabe refocused on his mathematical struggle, Peter flopped across the boy's bed and groaned. "I'm so booooooooored. Let's go do something fun."

Gabe frowned. "Alex said that if I don't finish this before dinner, he's gonna make me run extra laps in PE tomorrow."

"Psh, running is easy," Peter said as he zipped around the room.

Gabe stared unhappily at the streak of a mutant. "Whatever. I'm not fast, and everyone stares at me in PE. You have the cool powers."

Peter gave him a mystified look as he rummaged through a stack of papers. "Your powers are cool. You can, like, control bombs and stuff."

"Yeah, but I can't use 'em all the time like you can," Gabe grumbled. His pencil drifted over the math problem.

"Here, you have to divide the four to both sides," Peter advised, pointing to the equation.

Gabe glanced at him before obeying. He quickly solved the rest of the problem. "Thanks, Peter."

Peter grinned. "So how 'bout playing cops and robbers, huh?"

Gabe gave him a weird look. "Dude, you lived cops and robbers."

"Yeah, that's overdone," Peter agreed. "How 'bout a round of good guys versus bad guys, using our powers?"

"Maybe later." Gabe started working on the next math problem. "But you don't even have to play pretend with that stuff; you could totally go beat up _real_ bad guys if you wanted to."

Peter scoffed and began throwing a ball in the air that he'd found on the floor. "I'm not a cop."

"You're better than a cop; you're a super speedy ninja, basically."

"Huh. Really?"

"Totally. You're a superhero."

Peter scowled at that term. "No, I'm really not."

Gabe shrugged. "Whatever. You can outrun bullets and make bad guys punch themselves. Sounds exactly like someone from that Batman comic we were reading the other day."

Huh. Peter thought about that. He never wanted to be a superhero, but Batman was pretty cool. Maybe… Maybe he could…

"Maybe you could even beat up Cole tomorrow in PE." Gabe pushed his heavy glasses back up his nose as he grinned at that thought. "Hey, can you help me solve—" Gabe looked up from his math, but Peter was already out of the room.

 

* * *

 

That weekend, Peter was, once again, crazy bored. He'd even gone so far as to clean out his room of the crap he didn't want.

Which was why his silver cape was hanging over the side of his bed. Peter stared at it, debating whether he wanted it as a keepsake or to just leave that memory in a dumpster.

He snatched it up and zipped down to his father's room. "Dad, I—"

Erik was buckling a suitcase. He glanced up when Peter walked in.

Peter frowned. "Where are you going?"

"Business." He floated the suitcase towards the door. "I'll only be gone for the weekend."

"What business? You live and work here."

Erik's sigh was harsh. "One of the parents requested to meet with me in person to ensure that I am not a risk to their child's safety."

"Oh. Can I come?"

"No."

Peter scowled. He was going to go stir crazy in this stupid mansion. "I thought you said being off the grounds wasn't safe—"

"It isn't," Erik said as he gathered papers off his desk. "But this is important."

Peter gently kicked the leg of the bedpost.

Erik stopped moving and looked at his son. "What's in your hand?"

Peter glanced down at the silver cape and shrugged. "It's that cape you gave me for my birthday that one year. I was wondering if I should get rid of it or not."

"Get rid of it?"

"Well, it's not like I can wear it anymore," Peter said, holding the small cape up. "It's freaking puny. And I'm pretty sure someone would beat me up if they saw me running around in a cape."

The edge of Erik's mouth twitched up. He extended his hand. "I'll hold onto it, then."

Peter gave it a final look before handing it off to his father. "When are you leaving?"

"Tonight."

"Oh. When are you coming back?"

"Sunday night."

"Oh."

Erik leaned across his desk towards Peter. "Pietro, it's a quick trip. In the meantime, I expect you to listen to your superiors while I'm gone, understood?"

"Even Raven? If she comes back?"

"I think there will be larger issues at hand other than authority over you if Raven returns," Erik commented dryly.

Peter sagged against the side of the desk.

"I'll check in with you tomorrow night," Erik promised, giving his son's shoulder an affectionate squeeze before striding out of the room, his bags floating behind.

 

* * *

 

The following day passed by uneventfully. By the time dinner and been served and cleared, Peter was one hundred and fifty thousand percent done with sitting in a house forever.

He had to get out.

"Gabe!" Peter called as he flew into the younger boy's room. "You wanna do something?"

Gabe looked up from where he was stuffing pajamas in his backpack. "I wish." Gabe's half-lidded eyes showed his unhappiness. "Alex is taking…"

Peter mirrored the look. No one could ever do anything because everyone else on this stupid planet had jobs and work and hobbies and families and life-long callings—

Peter could get a hobby. Something that involved using his powers. And getting out of the house. Which kind of left using his powers out of the house. Like… helping people?

He was going to help people outside of this mansion by using his powers.

"…me and Scott home to spend Sunday with our parents," Gabe finished, not realizing that Peter had check out for a split second.

Peter was grinning largely. "That sucks. Have fun!"

"Squirt, you ready?" Alex checked, walking into the room. He look to Peter. "Hey, Peter."

"Hi, bye!" Peter said, zooming out of the room. His first mission was set: find a map.

He flew down to his dad's room and began searching his desk for a map. Because he had to have one of those around here. Peter tried the drawers, but they were all locked. Peter stood straight and frowned until something in the trashcan caught his eye.

He pulled it out—a map. Bingo. He spread it across the empty desk and saw a detailed map of New York. So now came the second mission: find somewhere to go.

Obviously, it had to be somewhere where people needed to be helped. So, somewhere where there was a lot of people. A city.

New York City. Peter pointed to it, realizing he was about fifty or so miles from the city. If he used his powers, he could be there in a minute, use his powers, and then sprint back in a minute. Easy.

With giddy anticipation thrumming through his overactive muscles, Peter sprinted up to his room. He grabbed his coat, his dark beanie, and active snow boots. He threw all three on and then zipped out the window, his path to NYC already memorized.

He was right: by taking a slower pace, he made it to the city in fifty-three seconds. This left him with plenty of energy to help people and zip home when the time came. Peter grinned as he looked around the tall, New York skyline.

Except his current parental guardian was a telepath. Peter dropped his frown. But that telepath never entered Peter's head because it was too fast for him. So as long as he wasn't obvious, Peter wouldn't get caught sneaking off the grounds. He hoped.

"No! Stop! He took my purse! Stop him!"

Peter ran in the direction of the woman's shrieks. He saw a middle-aged woman with a shawl around her hair (sooooo 1950's) pointing down the street. There, at the end of the block, a man was running with a pale, leather purse. People gaped at him in horror as he shoved them out of the way and ran.

Peter almost laughed at his run. Everyone was so slow. Peter zoomed down the street, grabbed the purse out of his unsuspecting hands, and then rushed it back to the woman.

The woman stared at Peter with a mix of terror, confusion, and gratitude.

"Here you go, ma'am!" Peter said, handing off the purse with a cheeky smile.

The woman slowly took back the purse and stuttered out a thank you.

Peter saluted and then took off again, yanking the confused criminal's underwear up into a wedgie as he passed.

Peter laughed as the man fell behind him. He'd been here a minute, and he'd already helped someone! And he was out of the mansion! Peter threw out his hands and squinted as he let the wind smack him completely. He felt alive.

"No, please," someone begged as Peter sped passed an alley. "Just, just take our money. Please, don't hurt us."

Peter stopped to see a middle-aged couple being held at gunpoint. Peter dashed over, grabbed the gun, unloaded it like his dad had taught him, and tossed the gun down. He then ripped the criminal's belt off of him and tied his hands behind his back.

When he resumed normal time, the couple jolted backwards in fear at the silver-haired boy that had just appeared.

The gunman writhed against the snowy pavement, fighting the knot securing his wrists together.

"Call 911," Peter advised them politely before offering his parting, cheeky smile.

He then zoomed away, ready to take on another Big Bad.

Peter laughed into the wind as he ran. (Also, maybe, he'd need to invest in some goggles.)

 

* * *

 

By the time Peter returned home that night, everyone was getting into bed. Peter jumped into his ensuite's shower and rinsed off the freezing snow that had seeped into his skin. And when he was in his pajamas, getting into bed, Hank popped his head into Peter's room.

Peter froze. Hank rarely came to find Peter. Did he know?

"Hey, have you seen Charles anywhere?" Hank asked.

"Uh, I haven't seen him," Peter answered honestly.

"Thanks," Hank said absentmindedly, shutting the door behind him.

Peter sagged against his pillows in relief. He was in the clear. And he felt actually tired. Peter grinned, having not exercised his zealous muscles that much in… well, since the Pentagon, at least.

With a smile on his face, Peter fell asleep, thinking of what Big Bads he would stop the next time he went out.

 

* * *

 

When Erik returned from wherever the crap he went, Peter figured he'd have to be more cautious. Because his dad might suspect something if he went to look for him and couldn't locate him for hours.

And maybe the fear of his dad's wrath should have struck fear into Peter and stopped him. Or maybe it was some small part of him that hoped his dad would notice and care.

Which was stupid. So that obviously wasn't true.

"Do you have goggles?" Peter asked the next Friday evening.

Hank glanced up from his microscope. "Like swimming goggles?"

"I guess." Even though Peter had never learned to swim, he had a good enough idea as to how those worked.

"What for?" Hank adjusted the slide.

"I was gonna run around outside, but the wind dries out my eyes. And, ya know, bugs."

Hank straightened and considered that. "That's a good point. I might have some lying around." Hank turned and began searching through the drawers in his metal desk.

Peter appeared behind him and angled his head to watch.

"This is all I have," Hank said, pulling out a large pair of safety goggles. "You can adjust the straps to make it fit your head."

"Thanks!" Peter snatched them up and tried them on. After they were secured, they felt a bit bulky. But they'd do.

Hank assessed them. "I'll work on making you a new pair. Some that won't be quite so… big."

"You're the best!" Peter cheered, zipping out of the room.

Peter ran outside and tested them out. He smiled as his eyes were protected from the breezy cold. These were a great idea, if he did say so himself.

He ran around for a bit longer before being outside without a jacket got the best of him. With freezing arms, he flew back into the mansion and into his room.

From the bed, Erik stared at his son and crossed his arms.

"Hey!" Peter greeted, pulling off the goggles with a grin.

"Why are you—"

"They're safety goggles," Peter enthusiastically rushed to explain. "They won't dry out my eyes when I run anymore! How neato is that? Hank let me borrow 'em while he works on making me a better pair."

Erik almost smiled as he swiveled his feet off the bed and back to the carpeted floor. "And how are your classes coming along?"

"Uh… good? I guess?" Peter tossed the goggles onto his nightstand.

"Have you finished all of your homework?"

"It's Friday, man."

Erik stared expectantly.

Peter rolled his eyes and plopped down onto the bed. "Yeah, yeah, I did all that crap."

Erik gave an approving nod. "And how are you… generally?"

Peter gave his father a confused look. "What's with the twenty questions?"

Erik folded his arms again as he stared down at the boy. "I'm your father; I'm checking in."

Peter shrugged and darted towards the tape deck on his dresser. "I'm good." He poked at the buttons until Led Zeppelin sang loudly from the 8-track.

Erik winced from the sound, not sharing his son's refined musical tastes. "Well. I am going out of town for the weekend, and I just wished… to make sure you're cared for."

Peter appeared in front of Erik instantly, peering closely at his father's face. "Why are you talking like a robot?" He squinted at Erik's frown. "Are you a robot?" He poked his cheek.

Erik gave him a disapproving look and slapped his finger away. "I have business to attend to, but I don't want you to believe that I'm consistently abandoning you."

Peter laid across his bed in a flash. "Well, technically, aren't you consistently abandoning me?"

Erik scowled. "No."

Peter became confused. "Wait. What work do you have to do? How come you're the only one who goes away on business? Are you going on some secret rendezvous with Charles?"

Erik looked heavenwards. "No. Another parent has complained about my presence, and I offered to meet with them in Connecticut."

Well, this would make it easier for Peter to sneak out. "OK," he said. But Peter did find it suspicious that his father never offered for him to come along.

Erik nodded once more. "Listen to Hank and Charles. Alex if you must."

Peter smirked. "What'd Alex do?"

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Be good, Pietro."

Peter titled his head and offered his most angelic smile. "Aren't I always?"

Erik muttered a German prayer and exited the room, pulling the door shut behind him without a touch.

Sweet. Peter grabbed his goggles and readjusted them to his face. As soon as his dad was out of the mansion, he would be able to run over to New York City and stop all kinds of bad guys. Tonight was gonna be awesome.

But, first, he needed his jacket.

 _Peter, dinner is being served,_ Charles mentally tossed into Peter's mind.

And, maybe, a quick bite to eat.

 

* * *

 

_**The Following Night, New Haven, Connecticut** _

Screams echoed around and around the dingy, abandoned warehouse.

Then they would cut off abruptly.

And then a low, menacing voice would follow. "Tell me what you know about the others, and you will not be sliced into pieces."

Riptide's left knee was bent unnaturally. He had a bloody gash stretching open his forehead, a blossoming black eye, a dislocated left shoulder, and a steel pipe jutting out of the flesh and jeans of his right thigh. Anytime he so much as began to use his powers, the pipe would writhe painfully through his muscle there.

"Names. Places."

Riptide glowered up at his torturer and spouted a filthy curse.

The pipe dug in deeper, and the screaming resumed. When it finally stopped, Riptide was panting and sagging against the concrete wall behind him.

"We're getting closer to your femoral artery, Janos. I would suggest telling me what I want before you sit in a pool of your own blood."

Riptide glared up at him. "Is this because of your shithead son? Because I didn't do anything to that kid. It—"

"You aided in his near murder." Erik leaned forwards with a dark menace in his eyes. "I hold you equally responsible for the crimes against him. And me."

With a burst of energy, Riptide shot an angry swirl of air towards Erik. But Erik was ready. He used his powers to divide the end of the pipe, sending sharp, tentacle-like tendrils of steel through Riptide's thigh. Riptide immediately stopped, dropping Erik, to clutch at his thigh and shriek.

Erik pushed himself off the concrete floor and smoothed his hair. "I'm running out of patience, Janos. Tell me where Frost is based."

A manic pain flashed through Riptide's eyes as he shook his head and held his bloody jeans. "You're going to kill me. Just do it. Peter got off easy; Emma will brainwash me if she finds out I betrayed her."

Erik kept his gaze even as a wrath boiled in his veins. Without moving a muscle, he began dragging a tendril of the steel through Riptide's muscle.

Riptide screamed at the sudden, unexpected pain and writhed against the floor.

"Tell me."

Riptide continued to shriek. Erik continued to slice through him.

"Tell me—now."

Through panting screams, Riptide managed, "Ge—Georgia!"

"Where?"

As the steel continued to pull at an agonizing rate, Riptide continued to cry out. "I don't know! I swear to God—just fucking stop!"

Erik then did stop moving the steel. He waited expectantly.

Riptide breathed heavily, his long, dark hair sticking to his sweaty, bloodied face. "She, she picks me up when she needs me. I work around here 'til then."

"What do you do for her?"

"I blow people away," Riptide answered with a vicious sneer. "Same as I did for _you_."

Erik wasn't visibly affected at all. "Where does she take you?"

"Atlanta, College Park, Miami, Jacksonville," Riptide bit out. "She doesn't always say where the hell Azazel zaps us; he just zaps us! All I know is that she's been sticking to the lower eastern states ever since you busted out."

Erik considered that. Something dark in him purred at the idea of Emma trying to run from him. She was afraid.

"Get this thing out of my leg," Riptide demanded through gritted teeth.

Erik refocused on the bleeding man before him. He gave a nod. "Thank you, Janos."

Then, all at once, he ripped the pipe through Riptide's flesh and out of his leg. And as Riptide began to scream, the steel pipe stabbed its way through his throat. The screaming was replaced with that sickening, wet crunch. Warm blood bubbled from his twitching lips.

Through decaying eyes, Janos watched as Erik Lehnsherr turned and breezed out of the abandoned warehouse.

 

* * *

 

_**The Following Monday, North Salem, New York** _

Ever since the weekend, Peter was riding a high. He had stopped, like, five muggings, and two murderers, and, like, a whole bunch of physical attacks. He was awesome. No, he was badass. Better yet—he was invincible.

He was jogging as a blur through the mansion, burning off his energy now that classes were done for the day. He thought about going into the city tonight, but with his dad just getting back last night, he doubted he'd be able to sneak out for that long.

Speaking of his father, where was he?

Peter zoomed through the mansion, overhearing Gabe groan at his homework, Scott and Jean making out (ew), Hank and Alex jabbering about some students, and—ah yes, Erik. Peter skidded to a stop, realizing he was outside of Charles's study. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. Those two were always avoiding each other these days.

Too curious to know what was bringing Cherik back from the dead, Peter pressed his ear against the solid, wooden door.

"It's no bloody excuse, Erik!"

"I'm doing what must be done. Emma needs to meet her justice. As do Azazel and Angel."

"And what of your justice, hmm? Only you're allowed to murder and then forget about it?"

"I won't apologize for what I've done. I just assumed you would appreciate hearing about this from me rather than a paper."

"I don't _appreciate_ hearing about this at all! I understand that Emma must be stopped, but, _God_ , Erik! This is too far! You're always going too bloody far!"

"It was the only way!"

"It was not—and, Peter, for God's sake, I can feel your mind whirring right outside the door!"

Peter jumped in a panic, but the metal door handle was turned and pulled inwards before he could even consider moving his frozen feet.

Charles and Erik stood a couple of feet apart, similarly glaring at the boy.

Peter tentatively smiled and waved. "Hey, guys. I was just gonna get a snack, and I thought 'hey, that'd be so badass if I offered one to you two.' But, of course, I didn't think 'badass' because I totally gave up any kind of cursing, like, a month ago."

"What did you hear?" Erik demanded, crossing his arms.

"Uh… You, like, murdered somebody…?"

Charles looked entirely done with this all, and Erik's expression was disapproving.

"Hey, that's totally cool!" Peter defended. "We all have our quirks, and yours include killing bad guys for the greater good and all that crap. Who am I to judge?"

Charles's expression twisted into confused disapproval. "You aren't murdering anyone, are you, Peter?"

Peter's eyes widened. "Holy crap, no! I just—wait, do you think I could murder someone? Like, not physically could, but do you see me as a potential murderer? Because that seems like a character trait I should know about—"

"Pietro, this was a private conversation," Erik cut him off sternly, "and I would appreciate your immediate discretion."

Peter smirked. "You want me to hide the fact that you're secretly Batman." Huh. This all felt weirdly familiar to Peter.

Erik stared at him while Charles groaned and said, "He is not bloody _Batman!_ He is Erik, and better yet, he is a public figure of this school!" Charles turned his fierce glare on Erik. "No more of these sadistic expeditions. While I can support your search for Frost, she must be brought to civilized justice."

Erik glared back at him. "She didn't just target my family; she's slaughtering innocent Homo sapiens that you hold so dear—"

"Yes, which is why I support putting a stop to her! But can you imagine the image painted of mutants if we leave death and destruction in our wake as we pursue her?"

Erik quirked a brow. "We?"

Charles's stare was flat. "Yes, I believe we are in cohorts with one another on this matter now."

"Sweet!" Peter cheered, eating a chocolate bar he found stashed in the desk drawer. "How we gonna stop the bitch?"

"Pietro, the next curse I hear from you will send you over my knee," Erik threatened with a dark glare.

Peter nervously gulped his bite of chocolate. "My dad, the murdering Batman, just threatened to spank me. Noted."

Charles was pinching the bridge of his nose. "Peter, you are not a part of this operation. This is highly dangerous, and you must stay out of it."

"I helped with the Pentagon!" Peter protested around a mouthful of chocolate, pointing an accusatory finger at his father. Erik's stare burned him.

"Because it was a dire situation," Charles countered evenly. "This isn't, and it will be left to the adults with mastered control of their powers."

Peter frowned and finished the candy bar. "I have a mastered control of my powers."

Erik stepped forwards and held his son's shoulder. "She hurt you, Pietro, and I can't forgive that. But your presence in this pursuit will distract me." He glanced at Charles. "Us. It would worsen the situation rather than help it."

Peter scowled at the carpet. Everyone was always busy. Everyone had things that they were doing that he couldn't be a part of. Well, they could all eat it; he didn't need them anyways.

Erik gave Peter's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "Have you finished your homework for today?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "No. That German stuff you assigned sucks major ass." His eyes widened as he realized his mistake. In the time it took Erik to narrow his eyes and begin to tighten his hold on Peter's shoulder, Peter ripped himself from his father's grasp and sprinted out of the room.

He dashed up to his room and locked the door. Because maybe that would delay that metal-bender for a split second. Maybe.

Peter waited by his open window, letting the cold air hit him and blow through his room. He waited, focusing on his door to see if the lock would turn.

It didn't.

Eventually, Peter relaxed and slid his window shut. He plopped down on his bed and began tossing a baseball into the air. (He'd found it in the back of his closet when he cleaned the place out.)

So. Cherik wouldn't let him be a part of their operation. Well, that would be just fine with him. Because he had his own Batman vigilantism going on, and they weren't invited.

And now, in order to protect the good citizens of New York (and the world), Peter had a villain to target: Emma Frost.

 

* * *

 

"So that's why I think you should help me Batman the hell out of New York City," Peter concluded in a hushed voice, sitting beside his friend on the bed.

In his dark room, Gabe's oversized eyes blinked behind his thick glasses. "I think that was all unbelievably stupid."

"What?! It's badass!"

Gabe rolled his eyes and whispered, "You do realize that this whole place is filled with telepaths and eavesdroppers, right? Talking louder than this is a dead give-away."

Peter rolled his eyes this time. "It's the middle of the night, Gabe. Besides, all of these oh-so-observant eavesdroppers would've noticed me sneaking out if they cared."

Gabe rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. "So you don't think Professor X cares about you?"

Peter shrugged and rolled onto his back as well. "Well, yeah, probably. But he's too busy for… anything. So."

Gabe gave him a dirty look. "So I'm second choice?"

"What? No! You're, like, my only friend, man. Of course I want your help. I came and told you about all of this, didn't I?"

Gabe settled back into his mattress and resumed staring at the dark ceiling. "I don't know why you even wanna help people. They all suck."

Peter frowned. "Not… all of them…"

"Didn't you get, like, kidnapped and tested on for years by some crazy guy?"

Peter winced away from his friend. "Shut up. That doesn't matter. It, it doesn't affect this, like, at all. Besides, I'm going to _stop_ the bad guys. Like that crazy guy."

Gabe kept quiet.

"And I'm gonna go after Emma Frost," Peter announced resolutely. "She's totally the worst, and I owe her some butt-whoopin' payback."

Gabe gave him a look. "You're gonna go after her? Isn't she some super powerful telepath?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm fast. I'll beat her." (Not that he even knew where to start on that front.) "But I would totally kick her ass if you'd help me out, Gabe."

Gabe scowled and didn't respond.

"What about the people like Scott and Alex?" Peter tried again, rolling to his side to look at his friend. "There's people that are cool like them that get attacked pretty much every day."

Gabe shrugged. "They've got people that look out for them."

"But _we_ could be those people!" Peter pled. "With my speed and your crazy-cool, bomb-and-bullet-holding powers, we could—"

"I'm not helping you, Peter," Gabe said and crossed his arms. "So shut up and save whoever the crap you want yourself."

Peter fretted and rolled back to his back.

"I don't get why you'd wanna be the next Batman," Gabe grumbled as he picked at his nails. "You save people, and you never get the recognition, because people don't really care—"

A shrieking cry pierced through the boys' skulls, severing the conversation. Peter and Gabe rolled to their knees and clutched their heads with cringes.

And then the scream dropped.

"What was that?" Gabe wondered aloud.

"I dunno," Peter said, leaping off the bed. "I'm gonna go find out." Peter flew out of Gabe's room and sped around the mansion, listening in to each door before pinpointing the agonized groans.

Peter flew into Jean's room. She was writhing against her linen sheets, bunching them around her legs. Her face looked like she was asleep. And in pain.

"Jean?" Peter asked cautiously. She was probably having a nightmare. He reached out and touched her shoulder. "Hey, you're dreaming. Wake up!"

With her eyes still squeezed shut, Jean flinched from his touch. And then she went completely still.

And then her eyes flashed open, an amber blaze coursing unnaturally through them. His hand on her wouldn't move, and he suddenly felt on fire.

" _I can feel you dying._ " Her layered voice echoed into every cell of Peter's mind, reverberating again and again against the inside of his skull.

All of Peter's constant energy was suddenly being sucked away. Through his shoulder, down his arm, and out of his hand, everything that made him feel alive was released into Jean's arm. He felt his breath leave his lips, and he couldn't get it back.

And then he was wrenched away. He was suddenly lying on the carpet, gasping up at the ceiling that mirrored Gabe's.

"Pietro? Pietro, are you alright?"

Peter lazily focused his eyes on the dark figure hovering over him. It was… it was his dad. "H-hey, Pops."

Erik briefly closed his eyes in relief. "Are you hurt?"

Peter slowly blinked and thought about that. No, nothing hurt. He just felt drained. Like all of his insides had dropped out of him, leaving his mind with a shell of a body. "'m tired."

Peter turned his head to see Charles sitting in his wheelchair, entirely focused on Jean. Jean's wide eyes flickered to Peter before staring back at Charles. Huh. Her eyes weren't on fire anymore. They looked boring normal again.

"Take him back to bed, Erik," Charles said softly over his shoulder. "He'll be alright in the morning."

Erik gritted his teeth because he _hated_ being told what to do. But he still slid a hand behind Peter's back and helped him sit up.

Blood rushed through his head, making Peter dizzy. He swayed with a "Whoa."

Erik easily supported him. "Are you able to walk?" He threw Jean a look.

"Yeah," Peter answered faintly. He struggled to his feet with his dad's sturdy help. Once he stood, he limply waved to the others. "Night, Chuck. Hope you feel better, Jean." He shuffled towards the door.

Erik shadowed his every move. Because Peter was walking _slowly_. Peter was most definitely not alright.

"How'd Jean get into my head?" Peter mumbled his thoughts as they walked down the hallway to his room. "Charles said it was gross fast in there."

"Charles can get into your head," Erik explained, keeping his hands ready to catch the boy if need be. "He just prefers not to make himself sick by doing it. And Jean is a powerful mutant." He frowned.

Peter grunted his acceptance of that and stumbled into his room. Mmm. His bed looked heavenly.

Erik turned his frown on his son. "Why aren't you in pajamas?"

Peter glanced down at his jeans and t-shirt. "I only need a few hours of sleep, remember?" He yanked off his shirt and messily stumbled out of the jeans. He landed across his mattress and face-first into his pillow.

Erik pursed his lips and fetched a pair of pajamas from the dresser. He yanked the jeans off of Peter's ankles and helped him step into the pajama pants.

Weakly, Peter pushed himself onto his elbows so he could pull up the pants. He then flopped back into the pillow with a groan. "Oh my god, is this was normal people feel like all the time?! Everything's so sloooooooooooow."

Erik rolled his eyes but slightly smiled. He grabbed Peter's torso and flipped him onto his back. "Sit up." Peter groaned as he obeyed. Erik helped him maneuver into the soft shirt before Peter folded back into the bed.

"Are you really alright?" Erik pressed, running a hand over the silver hair over his son's ear.

With half of his face stuffed into the bed, Peter kept his eyes closed and muttered, "Yeeeeeesssssss."

"I'll check on you in the morning," Erik vowed as he slowly stood. When he didn't get a response from the boy, he anxiously prompted, "Pietro?"

" _Ssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeep._ "

Erik fondly grabbed the sheet and comforter and pulled it over his zombie son. He probably told his son "goodnight" and maybe a sappy phrase or two, but Peter was out before Erik had even stepped towards the door.

 

* * *

 

When Peter eventually woke the next morning, it was eleven. Peter did a double take before yanking his alarm clock off his nightstand. He held the analog hands up to his face, not believing that he had been asleep for eleven hours.

Peter blinked and set the clock back down. He felt perfectly normal. Like, really crazy hungry, but he always woke up hungry. He jumped out of bed, sped into jeans and a t-shirt, and zoomed down to the kitchen.

With a grimace, Peter realized that all of the breakfast food had been put away since school had already started. And then Peter realized: school had already started. Looked like he had the day off.

With a smirk, Peter zipped through the fridge, looking for something delicious and easy. He grabbed a carton of chocolate milk and, ooh, a can of whipped cream. He then went to the freezer and was about to reach for the frozen waffles, but the ice cream was right there. So he grabbed the carton of ice cream and tossed it onto the island.

Peter grabbed a spoon and set to work on the ice cream while he went into the pantry. He searched around and then the most blessed blessing was blessed upon him: he found his confiscated stash of Twinkies and Ding Dongs behind the cans of vegetables. Peter held out his shirt and began sliding the delicious goods into his make-shift basket. He ripped into one for good measure, inhaling the Twinkie in one bite. He carried the ice cream and pile of Hostess goods out to the kitchen island. He'd already inhaled three Ding Dongs before all of the snacks even hit the counter.

With a content smile, Peter picked up the can of whipped cream and laid across the island. He cuddled into the snack desserts, ripping open a Twinkie with one hand and spraying whipped cream directly into his mouth with the other.

"Oh, for God's sake."

Peter tilted his head to look at who was speaking. Low and behold, his father was standing in the doorway with crossed arms and a disapproving look. Peter didn't move—except to spray more whipped cream into his mouth.

The can was yanked from Peter's hand, and it flew to Erik's hand.

"Good morning!" Peter greeted with a mouthful of the Twinkie.

Erik rolled his eyes and set the whipped cream on the counter. He marched towards his son with that Parental Look. Peter swallowed the rest of the Twinkie and calculated how long he could outrun Erik if he took off now.

But Erik had already reached his son, and he grabbed him by his ear. With pitiful whines, Peter scrambled off the island as his father pulled his ear towards the kitchen table. Erik shoved his son into the chair and then silverware floated out of a drawer and towards Peter's feet. The forks bent themselves into circles and wrapped around Peter's ankles, effectively securing him to the wooden chair.

"I just got them baaaaaack," Peter whined, looking desperately to his displayed Hostess stash.

Erik gave him that stare. "Hank confiscated your sugar supply for a reason. How many did you eat?"

Peter winced as he considered. "Like half of one."

Erik rolled his eyes and walked towards the fridge. "Then you'll find that you can sit still for the entirety of a meal, considering you only consumed half a treat."

But the sugar was already coursing through Peter's veins, making him jittery. "Yeah. Cool." He drummed his fingers against the kitchen table at a vicious speed.

Erik pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge. "Hank said you'll be back to normal after you eat a proper meal. How do you feel?"

"Hungry," Peter answered, training his eyes on the tens of snack foods.

Erik turned his back to Peter to start cracking eggs into a pan on the stove. "Do you still feel weak? Or light-headed or nauseous at all?"

"Nope," Peter said, popping the P. He began slowly, quietly pulling his chair closer to the island with his toes.

"Apparently, we're supposed to be lucky that Jean attacked you," Erik muttered sharply as he continued to tend to the eggs. "If it had been another student with a lower energy supply, they would be dead."

The metal in the room thrummed with energy, and Peter looked down to the vibrating metal around his ankles. "Yeah, well, lucky me." He continued to crawl the chair.

Erik straightened his back and took a calming breath. The metals stopped thrumming. "I don't want you going near her again, Pietro."

"OK," Peter agreed as he reached towards the island. He could just reach the treats. If he just stretched a little… farther…

Erik turned around right as Peter got his hand on five of the Twinkies. In a flash, Peter yanked them towards his lap, frantically tearing into the first one at the same time.

"Pietro!" Erik rebuked, jumping towards him and grabbing the Twinkies off his lap. But he only had three to grab; Peter had already scarfed down two of them. Erik glared at his son. "You're going to choke, you brainless child!"

Peter's mouth was entirely full as he chewed. He just stared up at his father with innocent doe eyes.

Erik tightened his jaw and grabbed onto the back of Peter's chair. He dragged the chair across the floor, planting him at the kitchen table, the wood hitting Peter in the chest. Erik then turned and marched back to the eggs.

When Peter had chewed enough of the Twinkies, he asked, "Why does this feel like an interrogation?"

With a stern glare, Erik brought the plate full of scrambled eggs in front of his son. "Eat."

Peter swallowed the last of the Twinkie and said, "I need a fork."

One of the forks flew out of the silverware drawer and into Peter's hand in a flash. It flew so quickly that _Peter_ was impressed by its speed. "Wow. Can you do that again?"

Erik's answer was to turn towards the kitchen sink and turn on the faucet. And then he turned on the garbage disposal. In the middle of eating his eggs, Peter froze and watched in horror as Erik opened Twinkie after Twinkie and fed them to the garbage disposal.

Charles chose that moment to roll into the kitchen. "Good morning, Peter! How are you fairing?"

Peter dropped his fork into his eggs to point in horror at his father. " _He's killing them!_ "

Charles blinked and looked over to Erik. He watched as Erik stoically continued feeding the garbage disposal. Charles turned back to the boy with a cringe. "Peter, how many did you eat?"

Peter slumped his forehead to the table and cried, " _Not enough!_ "

Charles raised his eyebrows and rolled up to the table. "Yes, well, I'm glad to see you're feeling more like yourself." He grabbed the newspaper off the table and shook it open.

Once Erik had disintegrated each and every perfectly good Hostess snack, he turned back to his son. "Eat your food before it goes cold."

Weakly, Peter lifted his head and began shoveling the eggs into his pouting mouth.

"Have you read the paper this morning, Erik?" Charles asked, looking up with bright eyes.

Erik nodded and sat down beside Peter with a mug of black coffee. "I do every morning."

"Did you see the mutant sightings column?" Charles pressed with a point to the paper.

Peter continued eating his eggs as he idly listened to them talk like old men.

"Yes. I was intrigued."

"Powers of speed!" Charles raved with a smile. "They sound remarkably like Peter's!"

Peter choked on his eggs and looked up in confusion. "What?"

"Someone in New York City has powers that mimic yours closely," Charles explained with his fascinated eyes glued to the paper. "He's been running around, protecting citizens from harm."

Peter felt the blood drain from his face.

"Yes, extraordinary," Erik murmured calmly as he took a drink from his mug. He glanced over at Peter, and then he narrowed his eyes on his son.

Peter looked back to eggs and made himself eat another bite—even though his stomach felt twisted with cement.

"We should recruit him!" Charles suggested enthusiastically. "His powers will be a great help for Peter."

Erik hadn't taken his eyes off of his son. "What is it?"

Charles looked up, confused by that question.

With both sets of parental eyes on him, Peter shrugged and kept stuffing eggs into his dry mouth. "I just… It's weird hearing someone else has your powers. I'm… not as unique anymore, I guess."

"You're just as unique as you always have been!" Charles protested. From the corner of his eyes, Peter saw Erik settle back against his chair. "Emma Frost and Jean have telepathic powers, and I am not any less unique, aren't I?"

Peter glanced up at the concerned parental figure. "Yeah, you're right." He finished off the plate of eggs. The sugar in his blood was making his nervous heart sing. He tried to pull away from the chair, but the ankle cuffs held him in place. He looked to his father. "Uh, can you let me up now? I feel like my arms and legs are gonna die unless I start running around."

Erik rolled his eyes and took Peter's dirty plate to the sink. "Maybe I should make you sit there as punishment for sneaking so much sugar."

Peter's eyes widened, and his limbs vibrated against the idea. He briefly considered throwing his weight backwards and rolling out of the room.

Erik turned back to his son and swiped a hand through the air. The cuff on Peter's right ankle fell free.

"Please try not to break anything today," Charles politely requested.

Peter nodded and looked expectantly to his father.

Erik gave him a final look. "Don't overdo it."

Peter nodded quickly. And the second cuff dropped open. Peter sped out of the room like a bat out of hell. He turned into just a streak, causing a gust of wind to hit the adults as he fled.

Cherik exchange a solemn look.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Erik vowed, shoving away from the counter and stalking out of the room.

 

* * *

 

While Charles focused on Jean's blossoming powers (she seemed to have a nightmarish episode every other night), the mansion was distracted from Peter.

Everyone but Erik. Peter had felt an extra pair of eyes on him ever since that night with Jean. Which was heart-warming. But not at all ideal.

Until the next weekend, the weekend before Peter's birthday.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" Erik stared at Peter.

Peter gave him a charming smile. "Of course, Daddy-o! I've been in tip top shape for, like, _weeks_ now. You don't need to worry about a thing!"

Erik sigh harshly as he shoved the last of his clothes into his suitcase. "Your enthusiasm is what concerns me."

"Am I not the best son you've ever been blessed to have?" Peter asked, turning on the angelic smile.

Erik was not fooled. "If you break another of Charles's vases, you'll be paying for it with extra chores."

Peter grimaced and made a mental note to avoid all vases.

"And stay on the grounds."

Peter made a mental note to take that as a vague suggestion.

Erik looked to his watch, and his suitcase snapped shut of its own accord. "I'll be back tomorrow night."

Peter gave a salute. "Good luck catching Emma." Because if Erik couldn't do it, Peter would.

Erik pulled his son towards him, kissed the top of his silver head, and then marched from the room. "Be good, Pietro."

Ha.

Erik strode down the hallway, down the stairs, and straight into Charles's study without a knock.

Charles quirked an eyebrow but otherwise did not stop writing at his desk. "Yes, by all means, come in."

The door behind Erik closed. "I have a lead on Azazel. I'm going after him."

Charles stopped writing and assessed Erik. "Where? What's the intel?"

"Miami." Erik gave him a look. "Azazel's appearance isn't exactly inconspicuous."

"Erik, the CIA wants to bring in Emma desperately as well," Charles tried to reason. "I could send Moira with you, get you access to their resources—"

"You're as far as my assistance extends," Erik cut him off crisply. "Any luck with Cerebro?"

Charles rubbed his temple. "No. She's managed to block me from her mind. And Azazel's."

"Angel?"

"She's a stripper in Berlin now, actually," Charles said with a false sense of ease. "After you slaughtered Riptide, Emma thought it best that she wipe Angel's mind of any interactions. She doesn't even know you or I exist."

Erik scowled and folded his arms. "Please tell me you aren't going to offer her a teaching position here."

Charles gave him a look. "I hardly think that would be appropriate for multiple reasons." He leaned back in his chair. "No, I think a life on her own will suit her just fine."

Erik didn't acknowledge that.

"Which means," Charles said, leaning forwards with a severe look, "you mustn't go after her, Erik. She's innocent in this now. Any retribution you demand from her has been absolved with her memories."

The skin on Erik's knuckles tightened. "I can't let her live freely after all that she has abetted."

"That girl in Berlin has done nothing against us," Charles insisted. "I can't allow you to target her."

Something twitched in Erik's jaw, but he eventually relented. "If I ever encounter her again, Charles, I won't hesitate."

Charles stared back, knowing that that was the best response he would be able to weasel out of Erik Lehnsherr.

Erik glanced at his watch. "I'll be back tomorrow night."

"Please, take the jet," Charles said when Erik turned towards the door.

Erik gave him a suspicious look.

Charles gave him a knowing grin. "Of course, the jet does have a pilot accompanied with it."

Erik's gaze hardened. "I will not—"

"Ready to hit the road, Professor L?" Hank called cheerfully as he popped his head into the study.

Erik's head snapped towards Hank.

Hank shrank back a bit. "OK, I'll cut back on the nicknames. I'll wait for you in the jet."

As Hank pulled away from the door, Erik looked back to Charles. "You were communicating with him during our conversation."

"He's assisting you, Erik."

Hank shut the door and left them to it. He figured Charles would either convince the crazy metal-bender or Hank would spend the weekend as planned: tinkering with the ray gun until it finally shot straight.

"Hey, Hank!" a silver-haired blur yelled out when Hank stepped into the foyer.

"Oh, Peter!" Hank called, digging a hand into his bag. "I've got something for you."

The blur appeared before him in the form of a twelve-year old boy. This boy had eager eyes glued to Hank's hidden hand. "Yeeeeees?"

"Well, since it's your birthday on Tuesday," Hank said, "consider this an early birthday present."

"I don't really celebrate those anymore, but I'm up for free stuff," Peter said and held out his expectant hands.

Hank stopped and narrowed his eyes on the kid. "Wait. You only get this if you tell me if you're the one who shatter the core to my ray gun."

Peter smashed his lips together and looked around. "Hmm... Yes, I did." And then he shot out and grabbed the present from Hank's hand before the professor could react.

"Neato!" Peter cheered as he turned the goggles over in his greedy mitts. He made sure he stood a considerable distance across the foyer from Hank as he examined the present.

"No!" Hank shouted. "You broke my ray gun! You don't get to have those!"

Peter looked at him with faux innocence. "But you said that I could have them if I told you that I broke your toy. And I did." He snapped the silver-lined goggles over his eyes and grinned.

Hank scowled and leapt towards the preteen. Peter was on the other side of the room before Hank landed.

"Do I look like an aviator?" Peter asked, looking around. "I feel like an aviator."

"You look like a swimmer," Hank told him with an eye roll.

"Huh. I don't even know how to swim," Peter said as he zipped around the foyer. He then stood in front of Hank with a large grin. "These are awesome! No more wind to the eyes! I can probably go, like, twenty times faster now that I can totally see where I'm running."

Hank relented his grudge to brag, "They form an airtight seal without suctioning your eyeballs. And they tighten to fit your head without creating excess rubber because you'll be going so fast that it would be likely to hit you in the face. These took so long because I've been trying to program a database program like Cerebro into the lenses that would activate maps when you saw street signs, but I haven't gotten far enough in the program to really install—"

"These are perfect, Hank!" Peter enthused, hugging the man tightly before jetting around the small area. "I'm unstoppable!" He laughed, the sound swirling and echoing all around Hank.

Erik stepped into the foyer, Charles right at his side. After a brief witnessing of his son, Erik turned to Charles with a dry stare. "Keep an eye on him."

Charles placed his slightly amused face into his hand. "Hank, what have you done?"

Hank looked away with a guilty smile. "Ready to head out?"

Erik stepped towards the foyer. "Pietro."

With a bright grin, the boy skidded to a stop in front of him. "Yeah, Dad?"

Erik lowered himself to get a better look at the goggles. He ran his thumbs over the silver plastic and rubber to ensure the quality. His powers alerted him to some sort of metal that lined the inside of the plastic. Knowing that metal certainly wasn't necessary to mold the accessory, Erik gave Hank an impressed look.

Hank looked abashed. "I figured he didn't need full control of those."

Peter zipped out of his father's hands and began running circles around the men. Erik could feel the metal in the goggles, reassuring him exactly where Peter was at all times. It was… calming. He looked back to Hank, letting his gratitude sway him. "Let's head out." He strode down to the basement for the X jet's hanger, letting his suitcase trail after. Hank quickly followed him.

"Bye, Hank!" the swirling child called out. "Bye, Dad!"

"Pietro?" Erik pressed as his head ducked out of sight.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be good," Peter grumbled.

"Stay on the tile or put on a jacket to run outside," Charles advised with a warm smile. "I don't want you burning through the carpet again." He began to wheel himself towards the kitchen.

"You got it, boss!" Peter said, flying up the stairs to his room for a jacket.

The blur of him was streaming for the door in the next moment.

"Stay on the grounds, please!" Charles ordered.

And, again, Peter decided to take that more as a polite request rather than a command.

 

* * *

 

That night, Charles had insisted on a board game night with anyone who desired to play. Alex, Jubilee, and Sean wanted to play; Peter didn't. But, apparently, Peter's presence was not optional.

Peter had whined and threatened to cheat (because this was his night to sneak into the city!). Charles returned a breezy smile and a promise to know if he tried to cheat. So Peter was stuck, grumbling and cheating his night through Monopoly. Charles caught him every time.

With a weak hope, Peter daydreamed about testing his goggles out in the city the following night, before his hovering father returned.

And then something magical happened: Jean lit the mansion on fire.

"Thank you, John," Charles said to the young Hispanic teen. He brushed his hand through his shaggy hair, pushing the water out of it.

While Jean stared in horror at the burnt, soggy kitchen walls, John smirked. "Anytime, Professor!" John strutted out of the drenched room, wearing a victorious smile.

"What the hell happened?!" Scott demanded as he skidded into the room. He took one look at Jean's wet hair and clothes before ripping off his jacket and rushing towards her. He wrapped the jacket around her, looked her over, and then looked to Charles for answers.

"A small incident," Charles assured him as he fished a pile of hand towels out of a drawer.

"My powers are getting worse," Jean admitted with a small, unamused smile. She looked to Scott before staring back at the table.

"They're merely developing, Jean," Charles assured her as he handed the majority of the towels over. He ran one down his face and through his hair. "There was no harm done."

"I set the mansion on fire!" Jean sputtered in disbelief, pointing towards the scorched, black splotches on the walls. "I could've killed everyone!"

"Psh, I totally would've gotten everyone out in time," Peter said, appearing by the fridge and biting into an apple.

Charles threw the boy a look. Jean's shoulders slumped as he face fell into her hands, and Scott placed comforting hands on her back.

"I shouldn't stay here," Jean mumbled into her palms. "I'm endangering everyone."

"Hey, don't talk like that," Scott chastised worriedly.

"That is out of the question," Charles said. "You are my charge, and your best chance at mastering your powers is to continue training your mind with mine."

Jean turned her head to stare desperately at her professor.

"So, like, when all the kids come here, they automatically become your charges?" Peter asked, finishing his apple. "Like, even Scott? And do I only count on the weekends my dad is gone, or is that, like, an all-the-time thing?" He decimated the last bite of apple.

Charles slowly turned to face the inquisitive boy. "Peter, perhaps we can pursue this line of questioning at a more opportune time."

"What?" Peter chucked his apple core into the trash and then looked between the mutants. "Oh. This is a dramatic moment. I see that now." He took measured steps backwards. "I'm just gonna go run around and stuff." Like in New York City. To fight axe murderers and the likes. Details.

Charles absent-mindedly waved the boy off and returned to consoling Jean.

With a grin, Peter booked it up to his room, tugged on his shoes and jacket, and then grabbed his goggles off his nightstand. Oh, yes. These beauties were going to add a whole new dimension to his A-game.

Peter's window opened and shut with a flash, and the boy was in New York City within a minute.

 

* * *

 

The goggles were working wondrously. Peter could see everything without having to squint against wind-speed. He saved an old woman's purse, a gambler from a biker gang, a woman from an abusive boyfriend, and a little dog that was being hideously mistreated. Peter Lehnsherr was the freaking best, if he did say so himself.

But these helpful duties couldn't detract him from the Ultimate Operation: taking down Emma the She-devil Frost. So, Peter sped around the city, saving these individuals while he searched for any signs of mutants.

He found a couple. A crazy-strong chick on Forty-Ninth Street and some wall-climber on Eleventh. Both knew nothing about the She-devil and suggested in blunt terms that Peter get lost.

And then he found gold.

"Tell me why I should keep you alive if you've proved useless to us?" the red-skinned man growled. He held a panicked man with multiple piercings against the alleyway wall.

"I'll get you the passports, man!" the man blubbered, pulling futilely at the red tail wrapped around his throat. "Please, just give me a few days!" The tail tightened its grip, choking the man's words away.

"You've been loyal, Herbert," Azazel said darkly. "And for that, I'll make your death swift."

Herbert's eyes widened in fear as the tail's sharp edge drew back to strike.

But a rock flew at Azazel's head, knocking his attention away from Herbert. He turned with a glare to see who would dare strike him.

Peter Django Lehnsherr stood a few feet away with raised fists and eyes glowering behind goggles.

Azazel almost laughed. So the child had lived. "Little Erik. Glad to see you're not dead."

"Let him go," Peter commanded with a scowl.

"Or you'll punch me?" Azazel raised an eyebrow. "Boy, you—" Peter launched himself at the red man, punching him right in the mouth at a super speed.

Azazel stumbled back, clutching his jaw in angry disbelief, but he didn't release his hold on Herbert. "You have nerve, boy. But you're inexperienced."

In the time it took Peter to recognize what he was doing, Azazel and Herbert flashed out of sight. Peter turned wildly around, seeing the suspect a couple blocks down. Azazel slashed Herbert's throat with his tail just as Peter darted towards them.

Herbert sputtered blood, and Peter knelt beside him. But there was nothing to do; this man was nearly dead already. Peter glowered up at Azazel.

"I disagree with Emma," Azazel said flippantly. "You may not be necessary, but I think you could be useful."

"Oh, yeah?" Peter challenged angrily, rising to his full height. "Then why don't you take me to her?! I'd be happy to take you guys both down at once!"

Azazel gave him the same look typically offered to delusional, rambling children. "I'll give her your regards."

"I'm gonna take you down!" Peter said, rushing at Azazel. Azazel appeared on the other side of the alley, and Peter bounced harmlessly off the wall. Peter pushed himself up and glared at the other mutant. "My dad killed Riptide, and I'm gonna finish you and Frost!"

Azazel's eyes sparked with something. "Riptide's attack won't be forgotten. You can tell your father that." His eyes roamed over Peter. "Maybe I should leave Erik a physical reminder?"

"Try it!" Peter shot back, rushing at Azazel again.

Azazel appeared on the other side of the alley with a chuckle. "Pietro Lehnsherr, would you honestly try to kill me?" His white teeth flashed behind red lips.

Peter's fists balled as he glared. "If prison doesn't cut it, I guess I won't have a choice."

Azazel nearly rolled his eyes. "You could never take a life; you're not your father. In fact, I think the idea of death frightens you." His eyes glinted wickedly, and then he vanished.

Peter grunted his frustration and sped around the blocks, trying to find him. "Come back, you coward! I'll knock your ass so far—"

At the end of the street, Azazel appeared, holding a frantic woman by her throat. The few loitering the street scattered with screams.

"She's very beautiful, isn't she?" Azazel called as he ran a large finger down her creamy throat. She tried to writhe away from him, but he held her fast. "How would it make you feel, child that will take me down, if I were to open her up?"

Peter bolted towards them, his hand reaching out for Azazel's dangerous one. He grabbed nothing but a puff of smoke. Peter whirled in frustration.

Screaming behind him made him zip a few blocks left. He found them at the end of the street, but they would disappear and reappear consistently out of reach. The woman never stopped screaming.

"Shh, the boy is afraid of death," Azazel said into the woman's hair. He smiled at Peter. "It would scare him so much if he heard you screaming before you died."

"Let her go, Azazel!" Peter yelled as he continued chasing the man. "She's innocent!"

"And so are you!" Azazel called back in amusement, disappearing and reappearing randomly—on top of buildings, in apartment windows, in the shadows of back alleys. Peter continued chasing him. "You're an innocent mouse, and I'm the cat with all the cards." Azazel appeared in the window of the middle of an apartment complex, leaning out with the panicked woman. He turned and gave her throat a final caress. "Give him a good scream, would you?"

A couple streets down, Peter could see her dangling from the window. "No!" He sped towards them, but Azazel's tail jutted in and out of her throat. Peter reached the building just in time for the bleeding woman to smack the concrete with a cracking thud. Peter stumbled back in horror, but his eyes didn't leave the woman. She was in a nightgown, giving Peter a good view of her unnaturally bent leg, her blood-drenched torso, and her sliced, twisted neck. Her eyes stared at nothing, but Peter felt they were accusing him.

"You would be so powerful if you would ditch the whole innocence thing," Azazel said, appearing beside him. He followed Peter's gaze to the distorted corpse. "If you can't stomach the sight of a common Homo sapien's death, then how will you be able to take down Emma or me?"

Rage rolled through Peter, fueling his muscles. In a flash, he leapt towards Azazel and wrapped his young hands around the red throat. He throttled the man. "You're disgusting! How could you steal someone's life and just not care?!"

Azazel flashed out of existence and reappeared a few streets over, but the sudden jolt in existence didn't shake Peter. Peter clung on to the man, gripping Azazel's neck with everything he had.

With a furious shove, Azazel was able to throw Peter to the street. But Peter was back on his feet in an instant, ready to leap on the man again. Azazel was ready, and he waited until Peter was in the air before kicking him back to the ground. Peter wheezed up at the dark sky, and Azazel used this opportunity to deliver a harder to kick to the boy's abdomen. All of the air left Peter's lungs.

"You're young," Azazel spat down at him. "You're naïve. Once you've gained control of your powers and can stomach the blood—maybe you'll stand a chance against me."

Peter's wet eyes stared up at the man, and air finally came back to his gaping mouth.

And then Azazel vanished with a puff of smoke.

Peter laid on the cold pavement as breathing transformed from tight to aching. He blinked up at the thick clouds as small flurries of snow began to drift towards him.

Azazel had been right. He wasn't strong enough. He didn't want to kill people—of course, he didn't want to kill anybody. But maybe… maybe his moral against murder was preventing him from doing whatever it takes to end Azazel and Frost.

When enough snow stuck to Peter, he pushed himself up off the concrete. He heard sirens whirr down the next street, and he zipped around the corner. People screamed and rushed towards the contorted woman.

Peter hadn't been fast enough. That was the simple truth in his mind. He could never be fast enough, because he would never devote everything he had to the cause. Because he couldn't kill Azazel or Frost.

Could he?

Peter sped back to the mansion with dried blood staining his hands. He considered his father. Erik had been capable of killing Riptide, and he was a considerably lesser bad than Azazel or Frost.

Why couldn't Peter be like his father?

Peter reached the mansion too soon. He had too much energy churning in his body. He needed to run. But, more than that, he needed to be better. He needed to be faster and stronger and more willing to do whatever it takes to bring the bad guys down.

Peter did laps around the mansion, becoming a silver blur along with the flurrying snow. He ran and he ran and he ran, but he couldn't escape the self-hatred. Because maybe if he'd just been a little faster or just a tiny bit stronger, that woman would be asleep in bed, warm in the arms of someone who loves her.

Loved her. Because now those arms would shake in grief at the touch of her cold, dead skin.

And what the hell had she even died for?! Nothing! Azazel had no reason to kill her, except to taunt to Peter.

So Peter had to be better! He had to be stronger!

Peter ran around the mansion, but it wasn't enough. He had to prove to himself that he was fast, and he was strong, and he could bend the laws of nature to achieve his goals.

The frozen pond caught his eye. Peter rushed towards it—then hesitated. He couldn't swim; he'd never learned how to swim. And it was below freezing. If he fell in…

But that was the point, wasn't it?! Peter was capable of anything—even running on fucking water! So Peter brushed the snow off of his goggles and ran across the frozen pond. Then he ran back across it. And again.

And the ice began to crack.

Peter ran again and again, and the heat his shoes generated was enough to melt and crack the ice. In less than a minute, the ice had parted, and Peter was doing it: he was running on water.

He almost smiled. But then he thought of Herbert, and he thought of that woman. This wasn't a victory; this was a penance. He would run, and he would run to prove to himself, to prove to _Azazel_ , that he could do anything to stop the evil coursing through the veins of this world.

Peter continued to run back and forth across the water, and his mind began to drift. He remembered Father… Whatever-His-Name-Was. How he referred to Peter as Simon Peter. Peter had looked that churchy guy up in one of the books of the Xavier library after all that. He remembered that Simon Peter was a saint.

Peter didn't think he was a saint, especially after sucking so bad tonight. But he did think he had something in common with the first Pope: he could walk on freaking water.

Peter pushed himself faster, thinking that maybe he could _fly_ over the stupid pond if he wanted to. Maybe he'd be able to fly after Azazel, and then that stupid bastard would choke on his own blood.

That image made Peter falter. Because even if it was Azazel, even if it was _Frost_ —he didn't want that. He didn't want to see anyone else's blood. He just wanted to help people. He didn't want anyone to die.

Maybe that was why Peter would never be able to succeed; he'd never have what it takes to stop all the bad in the world. Azazel was right; he'd never be like his father.

A wave of hopeless lethargy washed over Peter as he ran, and it was just enough to trip the boy's feet. He faltered, and then he panicked with flailing limbs.

And then he splashed through the icy water.

The cold hit him like a million pin pricks. He immediately inhaled before he sunk under completely, and then he beat at the water with unpracticed arms. He didn't know how to swim. He didn't know how to get out. He kicked his legs frantically, but he couldn't rise out past his waist. He slipped back down into the water, and the ice cold ate his muscles alive.

Peter's head dunked under the water, and through his goggles, he saw nothing but dark. Under the water, it was nothing but darkness all around. The cold, the water, the dark—it was all over him, closing in on him. He felt _trapped_ , just like he did in Stryker's cages. Panic hit him anew, and he flailed and sucked in a large breath of ice water. He choked and thrashed against the watery prison, but he couldn't get up because he was _trapped_. He didn't know which way was up, and he was drowning.

He was dying.

Peter flailed against the water. He didn't want to get kidnapped and shot _thrice_ and break into the Pentagon just to drown in his own backyard! He pushed against the water, and he got his head to break through, and he coughed. And then he sucked in air, and he sucked in another breath of burning cold water.

Peter's limbs were twitching, but he couldn't feel them anymore. It was too cold, and he needed more air. But he couldn't… He was too… He was underwater…

His arms swiped once, twice, and then stopped. His legs stilled their kicking. Peter was so cold, and there wasn't any air, but he… Where… He could feel his mind begin to float with his body.

In the darkness of his mind, a large hand wrapped around Peter's upper arm. He felt it tug, and then something was pressed up behind him. Maybe that's what happens when you die; you get pulled into the afterlife. Peter idly wondered if Jesus did that for Simon Peter when he died.

Something slammed against his back. And again. And again—painfully hard. Choking on water woke Peter up, and he vomited and spat up freezing water into the snow. He was dimly aware of firm hands supporting his bruised torso and shoulder. And he was sitting on snow. Huh. He thought he was in water. Or dying. Or something.

" _ **Answer me, Pietro!**_ " An angry voice demanded in Polish.

Peter blinked. Through a numb tongue, he mumbled, "Haven't heard Polish ina while…" He slumped tiredly back, and he felt himself hit something solid. Large arms wrapped around him and pulled him closer to the solid thing, and frantic kisses began to dot his hairline. There was a whole lot of languages jumbled to his ears, but he heard a lot of German prayers and Polish curses.

He almost smirked as he filed away the last curse for future use.

"We need to get him inside. You, too. You're both going to die of hypothermia unless we get you out of those clothes _now_."

The snowy ground was pulled away from Peter, but he realized he couldn't feel it. He only felt the sensation of moving through the air. "How come it's not cold…?"

"I'll carry him," Hank said.

Peter felt himself be jerked towards something solid, and those firm hands supported him.

"I've got him," his father growled. And then Peter was marched through the blizzard, and then he was suddenly… in the mansion?

"Bring him to the med bay," Hank commanded.

And then Peter was suddenly in the basement, where Hank always worked. It was like they could teleport. Maybe they had powers like Azazel and just never told him?

The warm air in the room made Peter's skin prick. He just wanted to curl up on his side and _sleep_.

But the firm hands had other plans for him. They latched onto Peter's jacket and zipped it down. They then began jerking the material off of Peter's torso and shoulders before trying to get it off his arms. Peter weakly tried beating the hands away because he just wanted to _sleep_.

"You will not be sleeping until we have you in some warm, dry clothes, Pietro," his father's stern voice said.

Peter pouted. That sounded like too much work to be worth it. He was _tired_.

His goggles were ripped off his face, and he cringed against the warm air that hit his eyes. Something was shoved into his mouth while the firm hands succeeded in yanking the jacket off his arms.

The thing in his mouth disappeared.

"He's at ninty-three point eight," Hank said in a worried voice.

The firm hands reached for his wet t-shirt, and then the firm hands disappeared.

"Erik, stop!" Hank said. "You're going to send him into cardiac arrest if you keep manhandling him like that!"

Peter lolled his head to the side; he was so tired.

"Get out of your own damn clothes. I'll take care of Peter."

"Dear God," a British voice said as it came closer. "What in the hell happened?"

Peter's shirt was pulled and then fell open down the middle. That was weird. It hadn't been able to do that before.

Wet clothing sloshed to the tile.

"I thought you were going to keep an eye on him!" Erik accused furiously. More damp clothes hit the tile as Peter's socks and shoes disappeared.

"I was attending to Jean!" Charles defended as Peter felt his jeans fall away.

This was really weird. How could his t-shirt and his jeans just fall open? Peter opened his eyes just in time to see Hank grab onto the lining of his underwear, flexed to pull.

"Oh, God," Peter mumbled, knowing he would never be able to get the image of Hank ripping off his underwear out of his mind for as long as he lived.

Hank had the decency to blush. "You can't stay in these clothes." And then he ripped the underwear off.

Peter closed his eyes as towels covered him.

"He's hypothermic," Hank said to somebody. "I need to raise his core temperature before his heartrate gets any weaker. Or erratic."

" _Then fucking do it._ " That was Peter's dad.

The firm hands returned, running a towel through Peter's icy, drenched hair.

"I'll ask Alex to bring down clothes for you both," Charles said.

Both. Peter peeked an eye open, wondering if his dad was really walking around in the nude. Nope; Erik had tied a towel around his waist. Peter reclosed his eyes.

"This might feel like it's burning you," Hank cautioned, "but it isn't. You're just cold, OK?" And then something dropped across Peter's neck and chest.

Peter gasped. He thought he was being burned. Or maybe his blood was spilling out and warming him up, just like Herbert's neck slashed open neck. Peter fumbled for the heating pads, not sure what was real.

The firm hands caught his and held on tight. Wow, those hands were really warm.

"Drape this across your neck too, Erik."

" _I'm not hypothermic._ "

"Erik, please. Hank is doing everything he can for you and Peter. This would all be horribly worse if your condition deteriorated as well."

Erik grumbled.

"It's too hot," Peter mumbled, reaching for the pads again. They were sending pinpricks throughout his body now.

The firm hands caught his again. "Shh, Pietro. Don't touch them; they're warming you." Something scratchy and flexible and hot draped itself across Peter. It started tucking itself under him.

"It hurts," he whined. He had fire ants nipping at every inch of his skin now. And his chest was _too hot_.

"Well, that's what you get for being an idiot and running through the frozen pond." Erik let out a sigh and leaned his forehead against his son's. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I can run on water," Peter explained weakly.

"Not well enough." Erik's forehead left his. "This stunt was stupid and careless. You're not allowed to use your powers for at least a week after this."

Peter kept his eyes closed while he frowned.

"Erik, perhaps we can serve up the punishments once he's not knocking on death's door," Charles said.

"I brought the clothes," Alex said as he entered the room. "What the crap happened?"

"It appears our quick friend isn't as fast as he thinks," Charles answered.

"I'm faaaaaaast," Peter protested weakly.

The firm hands left his, and he heard the rustle of clothes being pulled on.

"Let's keep your clothes off for now," Hank told Peter. "I don't want to let out any of the heat that the wool blanket has trapped."

Whatever. Peter could think of worse things than being naked under a blanket.

Like a warm towel being wrapped around his head. It was too hot.

"No," Peter protested faintly, blindly swatting his hands up. "'s so hot."

The firm hands returned to his and pinned them against his sweltering chest.

"What's his temperature?" Erik asked.

The stick thing slid back into Peter's mouth. Figuring it was a thermometer, he decided to be a good boy and keep it under his tongue.

The thermometer disappeared, and Hank answered, "Ninety-five point three."

The pricking was everywhere, but those firm hands wouldn't let him do a stupid thing about it. And he was still so tired. Maybe he should just sleep.

A soft hand stroked across his head. "Rest, Peter," Charles said.

And so Peter drifted to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Peter didn't know what time it was when he woke up. He just knew that he felt tired. His joints were stiff, his muscles ached, and his skin felt like it was vibrating against his nerves. He just wanted to go back to sleep.

"Each and every time I trust him with you, something disastrous happens!"

Peter's ears perked up.

"Erik, he is nearly thirteen; I can hardly be blamed for not keeping a constant eye on him, especially when I have a school to run!"

"And when he was six?" Erik challenged. "When he ran away? When he was kidnapped? When he was shot, when he was shot _again_ , when he ran away _again?!_ "

The metal of Peter's bed began to rattle.

"Yes, I have regrets, Erik! I wish I had been a better provider for him!" Peter's heart sank with guilt at that. "But he is also an independent boy—I couldn't force him to stay, short of brainwashing him."

There was a pause before Erik's hard voice muttered, "I can't trust him with anyone else."

Charles snorted. "And where were you when all of these events occurred?! You may believe that you were doing what was best for him, but if you had just come to me for help and swallowed your pride, he wouldn't have—"

"I did what was best!"

"I hardly think you're the poster child of good decisions, Erik!"

The metal rattled harder and then stopped abruptly.

"I'm sorry for what I have done against you, Charles," Erik said. "But I will always do what is best for Pietro."

Charles's tone became vaguely amused. "Yes, because murdering Shaw and slicing Riptide open were for Peter's benefit."

" _I am protecting him._ "

Peter had heard enough. "How 'bout you protect him by being super-duper quiet?" He cracked an eyelid open to see Cherik turn their heads towards him.

As Erik rushed towards him, Charles gave Peter a nod. "Our apologies, Peter. How are you fairing?"

Peter grimaced as Erik ran a hand over his cheek. "I feel like poop."

Erik's hand tightened against his skin. "Hypothermia will do that to a person." Erik's eyes narrowed, and Peter braced himself against the oncoming storm. "Why would you act so irresponsibly, Pietro?! I know you have a brain because Charles says he can feel it whirling, but after tonight, I'm beginning to believe that you have nothing inside your skull but manure!"

Peter wrinkled his nose. "Gross."

Charles rolled closer to the boy. "Why were you running on the pond, Peter?"

Peter looked down at the wool blanket cloaking him. "I… wanted to see if I could."

"And it couldn't wait until you had an adult to support you," Erik accused as the metal began to vibrate again. "And it couldn't wait until the pond was above freezing in a snow storm, and it couldn't wait until you learned to swim!" He took a deep breath through his nose, and the metal quieted. "If Hank and I hadn't returned right when we had—" He cut himself off to grit his teeth and stare at the blanket.

Peter swallowed, realizing that he had been seriously stupid. "Yeah… Sorry…"

Erik's eyes flashed up dangerously, but he couldn't bring himself to speak.

"I think we can all agree that you acted recklessly tonight," Charles cut in, throwing the other adult a significant look. "And your actions deserve consequences. Fortunately for you, we believe that your recovery will coincide nicely with your punishment."

Peter groaned. "Please don't tell me you were serious about the whole no-powers-for-a-week thing."

"Deadly." Erik stared hard at his son.

Peter looked between them, trying to find a way out of it.

"And if you believe I won't know you've been using your powers," Charles said, placing two fingers to his temple, _I'll know._

Peter blanched. "You… you'd go into my mind?" His heart accelerated because if they found out about his vigilante nights, _he was gonna die._

"No need," Charles responded crisply. "I can feel the presence of your accelerated mind; I'll know if your body is moving about faster than it should be." Charles's eyes locked on Peter, probing inquisitively.

Peter jerked his eyes away.

Erik's fingers brushed against Peter's scarred, left wrist. "I ought to fashion you another bracelet so I can know where you are."

Peter closed his eyes against the memories that flooded him and moved his hand away.

"That won't be necessary, Erik," Charles said. "My tracking of him will suffice."

The tightness in Peter's lungs began to ease.

"My son needs to rest," Erik said suddenly.

Charles could take a hint. "Of course. I'll check back in soon, Peter." Charles patted Peter's wool-sheathed leg before rolling out of the medical bay.

His departure left the Lehnsherrs in a thick silence. Peter kept his eyes glued to the white tile, and Erik remained motionless.

After a minute, Erik did move. He grabbed a metal chair without a touch and set it down beside Peter's bed. He sat in it and then leaned his elbows against Peter's mattress.

Maybe this was Peter's cue to go to sleep, but he felt too wired from their conversation. So he forced himself to remain as still as his father.

"Pietro," Erik said softly after a while, "would you like to talk about it?"

Peter licked his dry lips and looked at Erik in confusion. "About what?"

"Tonight. The years with Stryker. Anything that will cleanse your pain." Erik's expression was nothing but heartfelt sincerity. Peter realized that he was probably the only person on earth that received this look from one of the most dangerous men alive.

"I've already told you about Stryker," Peter deflected.

"It helps to talk," Erik reminded him. When his son stayed quiet, he admitted, "I used to stay up late with Charles and ramble on about my time in the concentration camp."

"Really?" Peter's dad rarely talked about how close Charles and he were. Or about his time as a Nazi's slave.

Erik picked at the fraying strands of wool. "He stayed up many nights, just letting me cry into his shoulder." He met Peter's eyes then, emphasizing that he had no shame in being weak for those he loved.

Peter ground his teeth and let himself feel what he had felt earlier that night. How he had let Herbert die, how he hadn't saved that woman. How Azazel taunted his insecurities. "I guess… I guess I was running on the pond 'cause… I wanted be fast."

Erik rested his chin into his propped hand. "Of course you're fast."

"Faster, I guess," Peter muttered. "Because you're, like, mega powerful and can do anything." Like taking down Azazel if he appeared. "And I wanted to be powerful too."

Erik stared at him, trying to understand.

"Anyways," Peter mumbled, "I guess I'm not because I tripped up, and I fell into the water. And then I had one of those stupid panic attacks because I felt like Stryker was trapping me in the water, and… and I couldn't…" Tears flooded his eyes, and his lips trembled.

Erik reached up and pulled his son against him. He held him tight as Peter released a sob. He held his son as he ran a comforting hand through his hair, down his back.

Peter's balled fists pressed into Erik's back, gripping him close. " _Why do I suck?_ " he blubbered through a sob.

Erik pulled back enough to give his son a reprimanding look. "You are one of the most powerful men on earth, Pietro Lehnsherr. You are comparing yourself to adults who have spent longer than your entire life mastering their powers. Do not belittle your perception of yourself because you've skewed your sights."

Erik was right; Peter knew that he was right. And he also knew that they were just words that didn't change anything. But, God—they made Peter's chest feel so much lighter.

Peter gasped air into his lungs and breathed it out slowly as his sobs subsided.

Erik ran his thumbs down Peter's wet cheeks. "You believe me to be one of the most powerful men in the world."

Peter rolled his watery eyes in a well-duh manner.

"But I have a weakness, Pietro," Erik insisted. "And that weakness is you. So, by default, that makes you in control of one of the most powerful men in the world."

Peter's mouth trembled into a smile, and his father pulled him back in for a hug. "I missed you. I missed you so much for so freaking long."

Erik's eyes closed as a rickety tower of pain mounted in his chest. "I know. I'm sorry. I thought of you more than you know." A tear escaped down his cheek.

Peter took a deep breath, and the men pulled apart.

"You need to rest, Pietro," his father said softly as he reclaimed his seat in the metal chair. He leaned against the bed.

Peter closed his eyes and pushed away the tears with the heels of his palms. "Are you gonna sit in that hard chair all night?"

"I can't be moved."

Peter let his lethargy wash over him as his father's consistent presence lulled him. And right as he drifted off, he felt firm hands remove the blanket on his head to comb through his hair.

 

* * *

 

_**February 24, 1970, North Salem, New York** _

Peter spent the entirety of his Monday cooped up in his bed, wearing pajamas, and ditching school. At least, until Charles had brought him his missed assignments. That was the problem with living in your school, he supposed.

And when Tuesday came, Peter was ready to get out of bed, strap on his goggles, and burn off his accumulated energy.

A knock at his door at six in the morning stopped him in the middle of pulling the goggles on. He turned towards the door curiously, leaving the goggles strapped around his long, silver hair. "Uh… come in."

Who was coming into his room before the sun was even up?

Charles pushed the door open and wheeled in with a smile. In his lap sat a large piece of frosted, chocolate cake. "Happy birthday, Peter!"

Peter felt his muscles stiffen and his typical grin slowly slid downwards. He looked to the cake and then to the Professor's large smile. Peter dragged a smile back up his mouth. "Cake for breakfast, Charles? What would Daddy Stickler say?"

Charles kept his grin, but he recognized something was amiss. "It's your thirteenth birthday; he needn't know."

Peter took the fork and plate of cake, shoveled a large bite into his mouth, and then set the cake down on the nightstand. "Thanks, Charles."

Charles eyed him, seeing that something was obviously upsetting the boy underneath his façade. While he could give himself a headache and try dipping into his mind, he decided it would be best to ask. "Peter—"

"Hey, since it's my birthday, can my punishment be lifted?" Peter cut him off. He jerked his goggles over his eyes. "I haven't been able to test these bad boys out all that much."

Charles decided to let it go, and he straightened in his wheelchair. "Well, that would be up to your father."

"Cool, thanks, Charles!" Peter sped out of the room in a flash.

Charles rolled his eyes and threw the abandoned plate of cake a final look before wheeling himself out of the room.

Meanwhile downstairs, Peter burst into the kitchen. Where Erik was cooking French toast with a hand towel over his shoulder. …Crap.

"Your punishment hasn't ended, Pietro," Erik reminded him as he flipped a piece of toast on the stove.

Peter frowned. "Don't I get an exemption for today?"

Erik's answer was a stern look.

Peter huffed and dropped into a seat at the kitchen table. He yanked off his goggles and tossed them on the table.

The goggles drifted up off the wood right after, floating over to Erik before tucking itself into his back pocket. Erik continued cooking nonchalantly.

"I could totally steal those back," Peter grumbled, his cheek pressed against his folded arms on the table.

Erik turned off the stove, grabbed the plate of French toast, and headed towards the table. "Not without using your powers." He gave his son a thin, victorious smile and set the plate of French toast down in front of Peter. "Happy birthday."

Peter scowled as he dug into the toast. "Ugh, for my birthday, I want everyone to pretend it's _not_ my birthday."

Erik narrowed his eyes.

"Don't you have to wait until your thirties for that kind of talk, little girl?" Alex sneered as he walked into the kitchen. He threw Peter a smirk and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. He was drenched in sweat from his morning run.

"At least I don't sweat like a pig when I run, you wuss!" Peter shoved a large bite of toast into his mouth and then looked up to his father's disapproving stare. "What?!" he spluttered around the toast. "He called me a girl!"

"Happy birthday, little, non-sweating girl!" Alex called with a laugh as he jogged out of the room.

Peter turned his dad with large, doe eyes. "Please. Just one quick use of speed to give him the worst wedgie of all time."

Erik rolled his eyes and went to clean up the dishes on the stove.

"Morning!" Hank said brightly as he stepped into the kitchen. "Hey—happy birthday, Peter!"

Peter groaned and stabbed more French toast into his mouth.

Hank gave him a weird look before turning to Erik for an explanation.

"Apparently, my son wants to pretend it isn't his birthday," Erik said and then threw Peter a look. "Even though it is."

"I _know_ it is," Peter grumbled to his plate. "I just don't like birthdays, OK?"

"Well, I haven't been able to celebrate your last six with you," Erik said as he dried the frying pan. "And I'll be damned if this one slips by unrecognized."

"That's the _point_ ," Peter said, glaring up at his father. "Half of my birthdays were the freaking worst, so I just don't want one, OK?!" He shoved himself out of the chair and went to flash out of the room, remembered his punishment, groaned loudly, and settled for stomping out of the kitchen.

Hank looked down meekly while Erik glared at nothing in particular.

Peter appeared back in the doorway with a scowl, muttered, "Thanks for the French toast," and then stomped back out of the room.

Charles rolled into the kitchen with a confused look. "Have either of you spoken to Peter this morning?"

"Uh…" Hank grabbed an orange, jar of peanut butter, and loaf of bread before backing out of the room.

Charles looked to Erik.

Erik put the frying pan away and projected the last few minutes' memories into Charles's mind.

"Oh." Charles blinked. "I suppose it wasn't my poor baking skills that made him frown at his birthday cake, then."

Erik ran a hand down his face and leaned against the counter. "I don't know how to help him, Charles."

Charles pondered. "Peter has had horrid experiences in the past around his birthday. Perhaps, he fears that one with the ones he loves will cause further disaster?"

Erik gave him a disgusted look. "Don't be irrational, Charles."

Charles rolled his eyes. "Then you need to go speak with him. You won't be able to help him unless you unearth the root of the problem." He rolled over to the cupboard and began preparing himself a bowl of oatmeal.

Erik opened his mouth and then hesitated. He clenched his jaw, trying to force the words out. But he couldn't do it. So he sent the mental plea: _would you help me talk with him?_

Charles froze in surprise and then looked up to see Erik's anguished face. He truly hated asking for help, and his displeasure made Charles grin. "I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch that?"

Erik huffed and spat out, "Would you help me talk to Pietro about this birthday nonsense?"

Charles smiled and brought a pot of water to the stove. "Why, Erik, I would be delighted."

Erik rolled his eyes and, to show his gratitude, ripped the pot and can of oatmeal from Charles's hands. Erik began to prepare the breakfast.

Charles blinked, feeling something warm and forgotten coat his heart. He turned away and wheeled to set the table before he could dwell on it.

 

* * *

 

OK, yeah, Peter was upset. But Peter wasn't an _idiot_. He wasn't about to let that giant slice of cake just go to waste.

Which is why when Cherik knocked on his door before entering, they found him with a face full of chocolate. Erik folded his arms while Charles wore a delighted grin.

Peter choked down the bite filling his mouth. "I couldn't let it go bad!"

"That's nearly half of an entire cake," Erik grumbled. "Whoever offered you that has their proportions severely distorted."

Charles and Peter shared a conspiratorial look that Erik missed.

"I don't need you dropping into a sugar coma at dawn," Erik said, marching towards the plate.

It was like the Hostess debacle all over again. As Erik went to grab the plate, Peter hurriedly shoveled forkful after forkful of cake into his mouth as fast as he could. By the time Erik wrenched the plate from his hand and used his powers to steal the fork, there was only a tiny square of cake left.

Erik stared disapprovingly, Peter smirked as he chewed a mouthful of cake, and Charles hid a smile behind his hand.

"Go wash your face," Erik commanded.

Peter's chocolate-smeared mouth titled downwards. "But it's my birthday."

"Peter," Charles said, "you can't denounce your birthday and then demand its entitlements."

He swallowed back the last of the cake as his frown deepened. "But it's my birthday."

Erik tossed the plate onto the nightstand with a clatter. "So you don't want a birthday, just the excuse it offers you."

Peter shrugged and zipped into the ensuite bathroom. The faucet ran for a moment, and then Peter reappeared on the bed with a clean face.

"Peter, must we remind you of your punishment every hour?" Charles asked as his forehead fell into his hand.

Peter squinted. "I thought I could use them for stuff that you guys told me to do."

Erik's smiled was menacing. "No."

" _Ugh_." Peter flopped back onto his bed. He hoped God would just strike him dead if Cherik ever found out about the vigilante thing.

Erik leaned against the bedpost while Charles drew his chair up alongside the bed.

Peter looked up at the two of them. "Is this an intervention? It feels like an intervention."

While Erik struggled with the words to respond, Charles stepped in. "Your father and I are here because we are worried about you. It's quite alright to experience anguish over your traumas, Peter, but shoving them under the rug won't make them go away."

Peter scowled towards the ceiling. "What if it's a really good rug?"

Erik rolled his eyes and dropped down to sit on the bed.

"We would like you to elaborate on your aversion towards your birthday," Charles said in a soothing voice.

"Oh, Satan on broomstick," Peter muttered, throwing his hands over his face. "That's the voice you use when you're trying to calm down Jean."

Erik squinted. "Satan… on a broomstick?"

Peter dropped his hands back to the bed. "Well, you wouldn't let me cuss; I had to get creative."

"That's actually rather amusing because witches were always depicted as riding broomsticks as an innuendo for riding a phallic symbol of the devil, so Satan riding a broomstick is…" Charles's smile faded as he looked between the two. He cleared his throat. "…rather inappropriate and irrelevant to this conversation."

Peter lolled his head to look up at his father. "Can I leave now so Charles will stop talking about penises."

"No, and I think Charles is done talking about penises." Erik gave Charles a look.

Charles grinned sheepishly. "Of course."

Peter huffed. He figured that he was trapped in this conversation, he might as well rush it. "OK, my birthday sucks, like, every year. I mean, when I was with you guys, it was probably fine; I don't really remember. But when I turned seven, I was living on the streets, trying to find Dad. And I don't even remember turning eight or nine _or ten_ because I never had any clue what freaking day it was. And my eleventh birthday was spent with Emma the She-devil Frost and her minions, so that's just awesome. And last year, I was on my own, and I just didn't celebrate." Peter shrugged and looked at his nails. "I think it's just one of those things we should forget about and move on at this point."

Charles and Erik sat in silence, digesting this.

Peter sighed noisily. "Something crappy is always happening around my birthday anyways, and I keep stupidly thinking that maybe I'm just, like, bad luck or something— _oof!_ " Peter's shirt was gripped and yanked, pulling the boy swiftly against his father's chest.

Erik wrapped his long arms around his son and held him close. "I'm sorry. I'll always be so sorry for everything you were forced to endure because of what I've done."

"It's not your fault, Dad," Peter mumbled against Erik's black turtleneck. "Life just happens to suck sometimes. And usually around February twenty-fourth."

Erik pulled his son back to look at him.

"Peter, life's circumstances are not based on a calendar's schedule," Charles explained. "Despite the coincidences of horrific incidents, having or abandoning a birthday won't influence them. Well, unless the incident is something like a horrific birthday party."

Erik threw his friend a look.

"Yeah…" Peter rubbed his eye. "I guess… I don't know. Having a birthday thing now kind of just makes me think of all those years life sucked on February twenty-fourth."

"Which is why we will replace those years will new, fonder memories," Charles offered with a warm smile. "When you look back on your life, you will regret never having a birthday more than having a few disastrous ones. I promise."

Peter bit his lip and looked to his dad for confirmation.

Seeing that his son wanted his input made Erik's cold heart warm. He smiled softly. "Charles is always right."

It was Charles's turn to have a warming heart.

" _Ugh!_ " Peter rolled dramatically across the bed. "You're so in love with him, it's screwing up your view of the world!"

Cherik looked to each other before quickly looking away.

"How 'bout ice cream?" Charles spouted suddenly, trying to change the subject.

While Peter's head popped up in eagerness, Erik gave his friend a wide-eyed, _**no**_ look.

"And by ice cream," Charles deterred the suggestion messily, "I meant homework… and presents." He turned back to Peter's deflating expression with a smile. "Peter, would you like to come downstairs and see your present? Assuming you do accept the existence of your birthday."

Peter leapt of the bed, staring at Charles with a hungry look. "Depends. You got something good?"

Charles narrowed his eyes with a grin. "You'll have to have a birthday to find out."

"Bleh, fine." Peter rushed out of the room at the pace of typical teen. "Beat ya there!"

"No powers!" Erik reminded him sternly.

Already downstairs, Peter called back, "I'm not!"

Cherik began following in the teen's wake.

"Thank you," Erik said, glancing down to Charles as they reached the elevator. "For being there for him and… knowing just what to say." He stepped into the elevator without another look.

"It isn't a problem." With a wry smile, Charles followed him in. "It's rather easy, considering I'm always right."

The elevator doors closed on them just as Erik jerked his head to look at the cheeky man.

 

* * *

 

Peter's first present of goggles spent the entirety of his birthday in the back pocket of Erik's pants. (It was insulting, really, to Hank's kindness and Peter's self-control.)

Charles had brought the young teen down to his study to give him a gift of every instillation in the Batman comic series. While Peter gaped and looked through them all, Charles smirked and said he thought two hundred graphic novels may entertain him for an hour—if they were lucky.

And when school started for the day, Alex had offered Peter the same gift he extended to every student on their birthday: the role of PE teacher. As the birthday kid, Peter became their god. He could be praised as a hero and have everyone sit out for the day. But these kids couldn't retaliate against the boy with super endurance… With a malicious grin, Peter forced the students to do what he loved and run for the entirety of the hour as he ran alongside them ( _without_ the super speed, of course, if Cherik were to hear of this.)

With a lollipop in his mouth, Peter meandered around the mansion with a grin. He decided that maybe having a birthday wasn't so bad after all.

And then the doorbell rang.

Already in the foyer, Peter slowly took out his sucker and glanced around. Everyone else was busy (or slow), so he headed towards the door. His dad had been really on his case lately for answering the door for everyone, but it was his birthday, and he was closest to the door. So, it was _fine_.

Peter swung the door open to see a man in his late teens holding a box and a piece of paper. The delivery boy squinted at the paper and asked, "I have a delivery from a Miss Darkholme for Perdy Len-shear?"

Close enough. Peter stuffed the lollipop back into his mouth and snatched the box into his greedy hands.

"Wait, I need you to sign," the deliverer requested, pushing the paper towards him and pulling a pen out of his pocket.

Peter quickly scribbled on the paper and then slammed the door. He held the box, feeling its significant weight. He ripped the lid off and froze.

Nestled inside deep blue tissue paper was a large glass bottle of Bourbon. A crisp, white card was folded into the corner of the paper. Peter picked it up and read: _Happy birthday, Quicksilver. Sorry I'm not there for your entrance into adolescence, but I thought I'd send a little present from 1913. I'd suggest chugging it before the adults catch it._

A grin spread across Peter's face. Raven was so cool. He grabbed the bottle, dropped the empty box, and then fished the lollipop from his mouth. He twisted the cap off the bottle and then hesitantly smelled it. He was surprised; this bottle actually smelled sweet, not like the usual tart smell that Peter had encountered on those homeless alcoholics.

Peter raised the bottle to his mouth.

"Peter, your father is going to extend your punishment if you continue to answer the door after—" Charles stopped wheeling as he saw the teen standing in the foyer with a bottle of Bourbon to his lips.

Peter hadn't let the liquid hit his mouth yet, but now he was torn between throwing it back and ditching it altogether.

"Pietro," Erik said sternly as he came out of Charles's study, "if you were the one—" He stopped at the sight as well.

Ah, to hell with it. Peter was dead meat anyways. He jerked the liquid to pour into his mouth. Just as the sweet liquid coated his tongue, the bottle was jerked out of his hands. Peter coughed.

Across the foyer, Erik was glaring down at the bottle with a metal-rimmed nozzle. "Who in the hell offered you a bottle of Bourbon?"

Peter blinked, realizing that Bourbon tasted really good and really familiar.

Erik turned his glare on his son. "And why in the hell did you think it would be intelligent to drink it?!"

Charles swiped the bottle from Erik's hand and examined it. He gave the open bottle a sniff and then, being the resident alcohol aficionado, grinned. "Ah yes, the most lethal of all alcoholic beverages." He took a swig from the bottle while Erik glowered at him. "Apple juice."

Peter blinked. Oh. So that's why it smelled familiar.

Erik swiped the bottle bag and took a whiff. With a disapproving stare, he looked back to his son.

"Psh, I knew it was juice the whole time, man," Peter lied breezily. He stuck the lollipop back into his mouth.

Being it Peter's birthday, Charles decided to let his slide.

The metal-bender was less forgiving. With a trained stare and point, he took measured steps towards his son. "The next time I catch you with alcohol, you will relish in the memory of your current punishment."

Peter gulped. "But it's just juice."

"I don't give a damn if it's water stuffed inside an empty bottle of vodka," Erik spat. "Do it again, and you will regret it deeply."

Peter muttered a "yes, sir" and looked to the floor. He caught sight of the white card that he'd dropped and noticed there had been writing on the back. He snatched it up and continued reading: _God, I hope that played out as wonderfully as it did in my mind._

"Screw you, Raven," Peter muttered under his breath and finished reading: _Happy birthday, kid. There's a wad of cash for you under the tissue paper. Raven. P.S._ _ **Don't be stupid**_ _._

Peter stared at the last line. She'd underlined and bolded the words "don't be stupid." As if she thought Peter _was_ doing something stupid. Icy fear clawed up his spine. Did… did Raven know what he did on weekend nights?

The card was taken from his hands for Erik to read. He made quick work of the card before gritting his teeth. "Raven. Of course."

Charles was rubbing his forehead and smiling with faint amusement. "My sister has always been fond of theatrics."

Peter looked at his dad, wondering if he thought it was weird that Raven has emphasized the final line. But Erik showed no hint of understanding, only annoyance for Peter's almost-aunt.

Charles rolled over to read the card and handed off the bottle of apple juice. "Happy birthday, Peter."

Peter rolled his eyes and accepted the bottle back. He fished the box off the ground and dug through to find the wad of ten dollar bills. He leafed through them with a grin, realizing there was around $130 there. When he looked back up, Erik was calling out to the passing-by Hank for allowing a student to answer the door. And Charles was staring at Peter.

Staring directly at Peter.

Peter quickly looked away, holding his bottle, box, and wad of money. "I'm gonna go see if Gabe wants to binge on my comics with me." He scurried away before Cherik could try talking to him again.

Charles looked up to Erik with a distant look.

Erik scowled down at him. "What?"

Charles blinked, clearing his mind as he glanced down to the card in his hand. "Raven is an intriguing woman."

Erik rolled his eyes. "'Pain in my ass' is more fitting."

Charles glanced up at the high-strung father. "Care to join me for some tea and a game of chess?"

Erik stiffened. "We haven't played in… years."

Charles began wheeling himself down the hall, towards his study. "It seems Peter's birthday is full of surprises."

Erik blinked and then jerked his feet to carry him after the telepath.

 

* * *

 

Late that night, Peter was lying in bed with his nose in a Batman comic, many other graphic novels scattered across his comforter.

There was a knock at the door before it opened. Peter glanced up to see his father walk in.

"For wanting me to have a birthday so freaking bad," Peter said as he turned the page, "you never even got me a present."

The door shut behind Erik as he pulled a silver-wrapped box from behind his back. "Your birthday isn't over, you ungrateful child." He grinned.

Peter smiled, threw down his book, and grabbed the extended present. He went to take off the lid before he looked at his dad suspiciously. "Wait, how come we never celebrated yours or Charles's birthdays?"

Erik sat down at the foot of the bed. "We did; we had cake."

Peter rolled his eyes. "I think you guys should have a party this year. Like, giant party with piñatas and multiple cakes and balloons and strippers."

Erik narrowed his eyes.

"OK, maybe not the strippers. Isn't Angel a stripper now?"

"Open your present, Pietro," Erik said.

Peter brought his sights back to the box and ripped off the top. And there, nestled in carefully folded newspaper, was something leather and metallic. Peter pulled it from the box and stared in awe at the silver, leather jacket. It was flashy and just _Peter_. And on the inside, Peter's childhood silver cape had been stitched into the lining.

It was perfect.

Punishment be damned, Peter used his speed to launch himself at his father. Erik grunted in surprise as his son's small arms wrapped around him and squeezed with all they had.

"It'ssocool!" Peter gushed. "Thankyou! I'mgonnalooksoflippin'awesomewhenIrunaroundinthisthing! Ahaha!"

Erik smiled and gently hugged back his son. "I'm glad you like it."

Peter jumped out of his dad's hold to yank the jacket on. It was slightly too big for the slight boy, but Erik ensured that with purpose; it was small enough to easily fit the teen but big enough that Peter could grow into it.

Erik gave a small, fond smile to his giddy son. He thought about how this day had been a painful burden on his heart for the past six years. He thought about how today had almost been the impossible burden, had he not saved Peter from the icy waters two days prior. How he had lost one child to fire and nearly lost the other to ice. He imagined laying that silver jacket on the lid of a coffin rather than the silver box.

"Saturday is the last day of my punishment, right?" Peter asked as he examined his jacket in the mirror. He twisted to get a better look at the metallic-colored back. "Because I'm gonna totally be Quicksilver in this thing."

Erik blinked back tears. "Yes. Sunday will be the dreaded day you can return to destroying the mansion."

" _I can't wait!_ " Peter turned towards his father with a giant smile, and Erik couldn't help but return it. Peter bounced back up onto his bed, jostling the mattress and making books fall to the floor.

Erik shoved a pile of books to the carpet and laid back on the bed beside Peter.

"Are you gonna tuck me in?" Peter asked cheekily as he scooped up his previously abandoned book.

Erik closed his eyes and tucked his interlocked hands behind his head. "How about you read to me instead?" He didn't give a damn what the hell Peter read or did; Erik just wanted to sit in the presence of his son.

Because he had a son. His was alive, alive, alive, and here. Erik had his son, and it was his son's thirteenth birthday. These were the nights that he would cherish for his entire life.

"Eh, it's too hard to read these aloud without you seeing the pictures," Peter said, settling back under the covers but never removing his silver jacket. "But, hey, I'll just describe the pictures and read the words, and you can just, like, picture it."

Erik hummed his acceptance.

"OK, so all of Gotham is throwing birthday parties because it's the anniversary of Batman, right, and all the parties are supporting charities, so, of course, Batman and Robin agree to go and, like, support them, but it just got weird because…"

Erik let himself relax as he listened to his excited son monologue the happenings of Gotham. For the first time in many years, Erik felt truly at ease.

And for the first time in many years, Peter had had a very happy birthday.


	5. Act 3: Resurgence & Retribution (Pt. 2)

 

**Act 3: Resurgence & Retribution (Part 2)**

 

_**End of March 1970, North Salem, New York** _

Peter was a pretty reasonable person. He understood that he had almost died or whatever. He understood that his dad had already lost his only other child. But the almost-drowning was _weeks_ ago. And Erik was still always on his case.

Like, when Peter was sprinting around the grounds, he could feel his father watching him and sipping coffee from the kitchen window. And when Peter was on the verge of sleep on multiple occasions, he swore he saw his door crack open and then close. He even felt Charles mentally brush his mind more often than he usually did.

And today, when Peter casually mentioned to Gabe that they should head to the mall to check out the new comics now that the snow was melting, Erik had interrupted them in front of everybody to say that "they would not be going anywhere." (Like, yeah, they had been talking in the middle of Erik's German lesson, but it was the blind disagreement that mattered, really.)

So that's why Peter was searching for Erik after school was over. Because they really needed to talk about Erik's overprotectiveness being toned down a notch. Because there was no way in hell that Peter would ever be able to sneak out and improve his vigilantism if he constantly had Daddy Dearest breathing down his neck.

God forbid that that man ever find out about his vigilantism.

Peter sped around the mansion, looking in Erik's bedroom, Erik's bathroom, the kitchen, the backyard, the basement—oh. _Oh_. Erik's voice was coming from… Charles's study.

"If I just had the helmet," Erik said, sounding like he was speaking through his clenched teeth, "Emma's powers would be irrelevant."

Peter's eyes widened. The helmet. Of course! That was so smart. That helmet could block out Charles; of course it would be vital in defeating the She-devil!

"It isn't necessary!" Charles shot back. "Emma can be incapacitated just as she was when we brought her down in the USSR."

"You're afraid that I'll use it against you."

"No, I don't believe the cost is worth the outcome. If we were to retrieve it, we would need to break into the Pentagon again. And if we were to break into the Pentagon, you know that Peter would be necessary."

Peter took that as his cue to walk in. "Which I am more than happy to do."

While Charles put his face into his propped hand, Erik gave him a stern look. "Pietro, this is a private conversation."

"Which he has been eavesdropping in on," Charles said, looking towards the teen with an insincere smile.

Erik narrowed his eyes on his son.

"Uh, I was looking for my dad," Peter defended. "You're the ones that started yelling at each other." He sped over to Charles's desk and began playing with a Newton's cradle.

"We weren't yelling." Erik sounded incredibly tense.

"Well, whatever it was, I'm in," Peter said, snapping the metallic balls together at faster and faster speeds.

"There is nothing to be _in_ ," Charles said. "I'm certain your father won't allow you to step foot near the Pentagon again, and I certainly don't condone it either."

Peter looked to his dad with a can-you-believe-this-guy look.

Erik remained motionless with his arms crossed. "Charles couldn't be more right. Although, I don't believe we'd need Pietro's speed to get a metal helmet back." He gave Charles a significant look.

Charles just rolled his eyes.

Peter kept snapping the balls together, not even letting them carry their momentum properly. "Whatever. Is it OK if me and Gabe pop over to the mall real quick?"

"No," Erik said flatly and dropped into an armchair.

"See," Peter said as he pulled and pulled the Newton's cradle, "that's what we gotta work on. Yeah, I can see the whole reasoning behind a 'no' to breaking into a government base. But zipping into a comic book store? _Come on_."

"Once we apprehend the woman who had you shot, we can talk," Erik replied dryly.

" _Dad_ ," Peter whined, increasing the tempo of letting the balls drop. "I haven't left the property in, like, a month. I'm gonna die if I don't run somewhere."

"Where did you go a month ago?" Charles inquired with a furrowed brow.

Shoot. "I may or may not have ran into town to get some fresh air," Peter lied, keeping his eyes on the Newton's cradle.

"Confessions like this don't exactly convince me of anything other than your idiocy, Pietro."

"Aw, come on," Peter groaned. "I wouldn't have to sneak out if you'd just let me have some freedom every once in a while."

Erik rubbed his face and looked to Charles for his support.

Charles held up his hands. "I agree with Peter on this one; with his powers, he should be allowed to exercise them properly."

"Ha!" Peter's hand was a blur as he slammed the balls against each other. "See, you're worse than unreasonable Uncle Charles!"

Charles gave him an insulted look.

"Not my words," Peter defended with a look of wide-eyed innocence.

The metallic Newton's cradle was suddenly wrenched from Peter's hands and flew into Erik's. Erik clamped his hand over the swinging balls, stopping them all together.

"See, when you give me that murderous look," Peter said reasonably to his father, "it worries me because you've actually killed people before."

Erik bared his scary shark teeth. "If you haven't yet completed your homework, I suggest you do. And if you have, I'll triple it."

Peter glared back. "I did finish it so that I could go to the _mall_ with my _friend_."

When Erik opened his mouth to snap a reply, Charles hurriedly requested, "Erik, may I speak privately with you for a moment?"

Erik stared hard at the telepath.

Charles turned to the teen with a polite smile. "Peter, would you mind asking Hank for the recipe for his banana bread?"

Peter gave the Professor a disgruntled look. "I know what you're doing, but fine. Whatever. I'll get you your stupid recipe if it'll help you talk some sanity into Crazy Pops here." Peter stomped towards the door and gave Charles a parting point. "And I expect to eat some of this stupid banana bread!"

The door slammed on Peter as soon as he crossed the threshold.

Charles let out a sigh and turned to the expectant metal-bender. "Erik, if you don't let the boy have some slack, he's going to jerk the leash out of your hand."

"He isn't a dog," Erik snarled, pushing himself out of the chair to pace.

"Yes, because a dog would be given more freedom than you're allowing him!"

"What do you expect of me, Charles?" Erik snapped. "With all of the targets painted on Lehnsherrs' backs, how can I send my only family into the line of fire?"

"It's the comic book store, Erik."

"And he was nearly kidnapped at the duck pond!"

"And he was kidnapped out of the front yard!"

Erik glared. "If I had been there, he wouldn't have been."

Fire roared through Charles's veins. "Are you insinuating that I allowed your son to be ripped from my home?"

Erik didn't say anything back.

"After everything I have done for him," Charles hissed. " _After all I devoted to him and to you,_ you believe that the blame for his horrendous years fall upon me?!"

"I didn't say that." Erik scowled beyond Charles. "But I would have stopped a car."

"And they would have been bloody prepared for your powers!" Charles shouted. "This wasn't some snatch-and-go; _this was fucking premeditated, Erik!_ "

As his rage and spite rolled through every cell of him, Charles sliced his memories into Erik's mind. He let Erik see, from his perspective, the kidnapping of Peter. How the boy had fallen limply into the snow. How he had been carelessly thrown about by hardened men. How he was dumped into a van. How Charles had abandoned his morals and used everything he had to get Erik's son back. How Charles had experienced death through the mind of that man. How Charles wanted to die right into that snow when he realized that Peter was really, truly ripped from him.

With a gasp, Erik was released, and he fell back into the armchair.

A tear dropped out of Charles's eye, and his lips and hands trembled. "Don't you bloody well tell me that you would have stopped that day. _You weren't there._ "

Erik stared mutely.

The door was pushed open. "OK, Hank was super unhelpful," Peter said as he looked down at a scribbled-on scrap of paper. "I swear he doesn't even know any stupid recipe because he told me that you'd only need eggs, bananas, and, like, a teaspoon of flour—" Peter stopped talking as he looked up at the tense adults. Charles pushed away his tears. "Crap. Should I go make Hank elaborate on the recipe? Because it was kind of funny watching him struggle to come up with stuff—"

"You may go to the mall," Erik said, keeping his eyes trained on Charles.

Peter blinked. "What?"

"Be back for dinner," Erik elaborated, still staring at the telepath.

Charles's eyes clouded with confusion.

"Thank you, thank you!" Peter gushed, dropping the recipe and giving his father a giant hug. He then ran over and hugged Charles. "I don't know what the hell you said to him, but do it more often!" He gave Charles a final squeeze and then zipped out of there with a "See you at dinner!"

"I don't understand," Charles murmured. "I did nothing to reassure your fears of people targeting Peter."

"No, but you were right," Erik said as he stood. He took a step towards his friend. "You would do anything for Peter. And I trust you with his life, and thus, my life. If you believe that this is what he needs, I'll trust you."

Charles blinked, and something light and filling congested his soul. Erik Lehnsherr was the most independent man he'd ever met; his blind faith meant… everything.

Charles very much wanted to yank this man down and kiss him hard.

But Erik lowered his head and said mournfully, "I regret what I said that day. Sometimes, I regret it more than the accident or leaving you." He looked up through his lashes as Charles. "Pietro has had you longer than he's had me; I would be wrong to not consider you a father to my son."

Charles gaped openly.

"Our son," Erik amended quietly, looking to his hands.

Charles didn't know what to say. At this point, he didn't even want to kiss Erik; he wanted to take him to his bed and make him forget what day it was.

"Thank you," Erik said, "for being his father when I couldn't." And with that, he slowly turned and walked for the door.

Charles was suffocated with emotion. That confession, that apology was everything he had ever wanted to hear from that dark day in 1962. He couldn't even begin to express what Erik's words meant to him, so he managed a choked out, "Thank you, Erik."

Erik paused at the door, gave a nod without turning, and then walked out of the room.

 

* * *

 

_**April 1970, North Salem, New York** _

Two things happened since that day in March.

One: Erik and Charles had become Cherik with a capital C. Like, Peter couldn't even make it through his early-morning breakfast without them making dewy-eyed looks at each other. It was getting nauseating, and those two idiots hadn't even acted on their feelings yet. (Peter would know if they did; he was basically one of the founding fathers of the Mansion's ring of gossip, which also costarred eavesdroppers like the incredible telepath Jean and the reluctant, super-hearing Hank.)

And two: Erik had eased up. Like, a lot. If Peter didn't know any better, he would've thought Charles got into his pants and relieved some tension or something. But whatever the hell Charles did do was a godsend because Peter was suddenly allowed to go to the comic book store and the record store and to see a movie and to take a few laps through town.

Better yet, Erik was now capable of boarding the jet with Hank to follow up on an Emma sighting in Atlanta. For the whole weekend.

"You'll be smart and responsible while I'm gone," Erik told his son sternly.

If by 'smart and responsible' Erik meant 'badass at stopping bad guys,' then— "Yes, Dad!"

"And good and helpful for Charles."

Peter gently rested his fists under his chin and smiled charmingly. "I doubt that that man will find an angel more obedient than I."

"But I could find an angel with a better homework track record," Charles cut in as he rolled towards the X-jet's platform. "I'm still waiting for that book report." He gave Peter an expectant look.

"Look, I know you're Dr. Education and all," Peter said, "but you can cool it when we're out of class. Or at least on the weekends."

"But the mind never stops learning!" Charles protested with a playfully insulted look. "Especially on the weekends."

Peter rolled his eyes and muttered, "Nerd."

"Be good," Erik said, kissing the top of his son's head.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"And you'll have that book report on Charles's desk by Monday morning."

Peter groaned.

Erik gave Charles a lingering look and a parting nod before marching up the ramp and into the jet, his suitcase following him in.

"Have a good weekend, Professor!" Hank said as he walked up the ramp, duffle bag over his shoulder. "You too, Peter!"

Charles grinned. "Are you excited for your trip, Hank?"

"Another one-on-one weekend with the resident murderer?" Hank gave him an insincere look of enthusiasm. "I've been looking forward to it."

"Just hum the whole two days," Peter suggested helpfully. "I do that all the time, and he _loves_ it."

The ramp began to rise of its own accord, forcing Hank to duck into the jet.

 

* * *

 

It was one a.m. on Saturday morning, and Peter was chewing gum and doing laps around the grounds. He decided not to push it by rushing to NYC that night, as Charles's mind would surely be tracking his. He figured he could make something pop up to distract the telepath for Saturday night. Or at least get him drunk or drugged or something.

A scream pierced through the night air, making Peter look back to the mansion. He adjusted his goggles and silver jacket and then sprinted across the yard, back inside, and up to the second floor. He followed the sound of feminine cries and whines straight to Jean's room.

"Hey," Peter said, trying to call her into consciousness. She was obviously trapped in one of her telepathic nightmares again, but Peter remembered all too well what had happened the last time he'd touched her. He glanced around and found a hanger in her closet. He snatched it and began prodding her arm with it. "Jean, wake up."

"Get out, get out," Jean mumbled distraughtly, thrashing in her sheets.

Peter continued to poke her. "Jean!"

"Yes, thank you, Peter," Charles interrupted as Scott wheeled the Professor in.

Peter tossed the hanger back into the closet and stepped aside.

Scott watched in worry as Charles rolled up to the tormented girl.

"Jean," Charles said in a soothing voice. He reached out and touched her cheek.

Like a mental explosion, all three men were launched into her nightmare. Emma Frost was pinning Jean down, and Peter was watching through Jean's eyes.

"You tell your Professor X that he doesn't stand a chance against me any longer," Emma hissed, digging her fingernails into the flesh of Jean's wrists. Peter could feel the bite in his own skin. "And you tell that ignorant bastard Lehnsherr that if he keeps chasing me, I'll come after everything he has." She pressed her lips right up to Jean's ear, and Peter felt Emma's breath tickle his skin. "And I'll win."

"Right, well, that's where you're wrong," Charles declared, suddenly standing behind Emma and throwing her off Jean. "I do stand a chance, and you'll win nothing." Without a touch, Charles sent a rippling blast that sent Emma flying.

Emma pushed herself up off the nonexistent floor angrily. And then her eyes snapped over and stared right through Jean—right at Peter. She smirked. "Hello, darling."

Peter felt ice cold.

"Get out of my students' minds, Emma," Charles commanded, raising fingers to his temple.

Emma wheeled around to glare at him. "I've been developing my powers, Charles. Would you like to see the extent of them on Jean?" She glanced over to Jean. "Or how about Scott?" Her smirk grew. "Oh, but I would love to see Daddy Lehnsherr's face when he comes home to a son with a puddle for a brain—"

Charles send a strong, telepathic force at her again, this time even more intense. Jean/Peter/Scott had to clench their head as the aftershocks rolled off Emma towards their minds. Emma instinctively turned to her diamond form, causing her to evaporate from their minds.

Peter blinked, and he was back in his body, curled up against the carpet. He pushed himself up and saw Scott had been similarly strewn.

Jean was awake and panting in her bed. "She got into my _mind_ , Professor."

Charles was gripping the armrests of his wheelchair tightly. "I'm so sorry, Jean."

"It's not bad enough that I'm having visions of the end of the world and accidentally attacking others," Jean ranted in a panicked voice. "Now, I'm being used like a puppet by some psychotic woman!"

"I know," Charles assured her grimly, calmly. "We will work further on strengthening your mental shields, Jean. We will work through this, just as we have been."

Jean pressed her lips together and stared at her comforter. Scott gently sat beside her and took her hand.

Peter chewed his now flavorless gum and noticed his hands were shaking. He stuffed them into his pockets and began backing out of the room. Deciding that he'd had enough activity for one night, he headed for his own room.

 

* * *

 

"I could really use your help on this tonight, man," Peter begged.

Gabe just continued reading his thick book on Roman mythology. "Did you know that Vulcan was the Roman god of fire and other stuff like metalworking? I can kinda control fire. And that's funny because you're Quicksilver, so, technically, I'd be able to control—"

Peter snapped the book shut. "Gabe. Come on. I don't have time for this. Charles is only gonna be mind-dancing with Jean for so long."

Gabe frowned up at his friend. "Peter, I don't wanna be Batman. You can go save people, and I'll listen to you ramble on about it. But I'm not into saving people."

Peter rolled his eyes. "You're just saying that because you never get to practice using your powers. But, Gabe! You can use 'em tonight! If you help me break into his museum—"

"What museum?"

"It's the Met." Peter grinned. "It has a similar guard system to the Pentagon, so it's perfect for practicing—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Gabe interrupted, "the Met? Like, in New York City?"

"Uh, yeah. I can run us there in less than a minute."

Gabe grimaced. "That sounds nauseating."

Peter briefly considered that and couldn't help but agree that a trip that far at his speed might make Gabe incredibly sick. "That's not the point. The point is, I need practice breaking into places solo so that I can get that stupid helmet. But I'd be, like, twenty times likelier to do that if I had a little back-up."

Gabe shook his head and turned back to his book. "You're on your own, Peter."

Peter flopped onto Gabe's bed with a dramatic groan. "Don't be such a wuss!"

Gabe kept his eyes on his book. "I'm not afraid; I just think it's a dumb idea."

"Because you don't think you can do it."

"No; I don't think _you_ can do it."

Peter hopped to his feet and straightened his gray ball cap. "Oh, yeah? When I come back here with an original Monet, I'm gonna make you eat it."

Gabe gave him a dead stare. "Have fun explaining that one to the Professor."

"Pfft." Peter snapped on his goggles from underneath his hat. "Charles is the most oblivious guy on earth. He wouldn't notice if I ran to the moon and back."

Gabe tossed him a parting wave. "Tell Neil Armstrong that I said hi."

Peter rolled his eyes, threw open the window, and disappeared into the night.

 

* * *

 

Erik stepped off the lowering ramp of the jet without a backwards glance.

"While you look pretty badass," Hank cut in as he followed Magneto, "you really can wait 'til the ramp is fully lowered."

Erik continued marching. Twenty-four hours with Hank McCoy had been about twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes too long.

"Oh, come on," Hank said, hitting a button to make the ramp rise back up. "Just because Emma knew we were coming—"

Erik whirled around to face him with a steely gaze. "She knew. That means that she either has a mole in our home, or—"

"Her powers have surpassed our expectations," Hank finished dryly. "Yeah, I know."

Erik stared and then turned to continue his march out of the basement's hanger. "Charles will need to assess everyone's minds. If there's a mole, we must eradicate—"

"Whoa, wait," Hank said as he trailed after Erik. "Mr. Don't-Ever-Touch-My-Mind is demanding that Charles forgo everyone's mental privacies and—"

" _Yes,_ " Erik said through his teeth as turned to face Hank. "Because privacies be damned when lives are at risk." He pushed through the door of the hanger.

Hank rolled his eyes. "You're only saying that because _your_ head doesn't need to be examined, and it's _Peter's_ life on the line."

Erik jogged up the stairs and ignored Hank. He marched right down the hallway of the first floor and straight into Charles's office without a knock.

But it was empty.

"Where the hell is he?" Erik muttered with a scowl. He ducked back out of the room.

"It's midnight on a Saturday night," Hank said with a glance at his watch. "He's probably at a strip club." Hank grinned.

Erik gave him a tired look before shoving the door to Charles's study open.

Charles and Jean sat across from each other and blinked over in surprise at the intrusion.

"Or that," Hank amended.

"You're back early," Charles noted with a slight frown dipping into his forehead.

Erik strode into the room. "She knew we were coming."

In the light of the lamp, Charles could see the shadow of a forming bruise on Erik's eye and jawline. "Yes, I can see that." He turned to Jean with an apologetic smile. "You've done beautifully, Jean. Let's pick this up again tomorrow night."

Jean rubbed her eye tiredly and nodded. She looked between Erik and Hank as she rose and then left the room.

Erik kept his eyes trained on her the entire way, suspicious of any possible mole.

"You can drop the stare, Erik," Charles said as he wheeled himself behind his desk. "She's a telepath and can more than likely hear whatever you're thinking about her."

Erik scowled. "There's a mole working for Emma, Charles."

Charles considered this. "Because she knew you two were coming?"

"Yes," Hank answered as he sat in an armchair.

"I'm afraid you're right," Charles admitted. "But our mole wasn't a willing party."

Erik leaned his hands against the desk and waited for his elaboration.

"Jean's mind was infiltrated last night," Charles explained. "Emma was able to hook onto her telepathic connection and reel herself into Jean's mind. We were just working on strengthening her mental shields.

"Emma must've gone through Jean's mind and seen that you two had gone after her again."

Erik narrowed his eyes. "And why is Jean in possession of that information."

Charles gave him a look. "Why is the uncontrolled telepath privy to poorly kept secrets? It's a sure wonder, Erik."

Erik shoved off the desk and stalked around the room. "So she can step into our minds now."

"Only Jean's," Charles corrected. "Without something like Cerebro, she needs another telepathic beacon to lure her in."

"But not yours?" Hank checked.

"Are you really so faithless in me, Hank?" Charles asked with a tilted head.

"How do we stop it?" Erik demanded.

"I'm working with Jean, as you've seen."

"How do we stop Emma?"

Charles rubbed his eyes. "I don't know."

Erik threw up his hands.

"Let's focus on this tomorrow," Charles suggested patiently, looking to Erik. "We could all use the rest, and I'm sure Peter would—" Charles froze with widening eyes.

Moments like this haunted Erik's nightmares. He stalked closer to the telepath as cold fear made his heart beat harder. "Charles."

Hank stared in confusion.

Charles eyes moved back and forth unseeingly.

Erik pressed his fists into the mahogany desk. " _Charles_."

"I can't find him," Charles murmured in a colorless voice. "Peter's… Peter's not here."

" _What the hell are you talking about?_ " Erik demanded fiercely. "Where is he?!"

Privacy be damned—Charles began scanning the students' minds, trying to find any remnant thoughts of the silver-haired teen.

… _if Lehnsherr's stupid tests weren't so damn hard…_

… _call Mom when she gets off the plane…_

… _zzzzzzzzz..._

… _that's probably their best song because…_

… _zzzzzzzzz…_

… _and Peter totally didn't even care about the Roman god thing so he probably…_

Charles zeroed in on that mental voice. "Gabe Summers." His hand flew to his joystick, and he wheeled himself out of the office. Erik was already ahead of him, and Hank trailed behind.

The elevator ride was short, but it felt like an eternity to the trio. And when they arrived at Gabriel Summers's door, Charles knocked right before Erik threw it open.

From his desk, Gabe's head snapped up from his book. Seeing the three men, his eyes widened behind his thick glasses. "H…hi…"

Erik could eat his guilt from across the room. He narrowed his eyes on the boy. "Where is my son?"

Charles held up a hand to his friend and gave Gabe a sympathetic smile. "Gabe isn't a part of Peter's schemes. Am I correct?"

Gabe glanced at Erik's stormy face, gulped, and nodded at Charles.

"But you can enlighten us on those schemes," Charles said soothingly. "Am I correct?"

Gabe looked between the men.

 

* * *

 

OK, so breaking in was the easy part, Peter decided. He just had to wait for an opening and then speed past the guards and security cameras. Trying to get the Monet out—that was the bitch.

Ducked behind a display case from the cameras' views, Peter stared up at the piece. He didn't even know why Monet was so popular. Peter could paint something that messy and girly if he wanted to. Probably.

A guard stepped into the room, looked around, and then walked back out.

Well. There was only one way to do this, really. Peter adjusted his hat and sped up to the painting. It really was a stupid, messy painting.

"I'll check it out," some guard muttered into a walkie-talkie as his footsteps drew closer.

Peter went to yank it off the wall, but it wouldn't budge. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the thick wire it hung on was locked into the wall.

Ugh. Just Peter's luck. If only Magneto was around to work his magic.

The footsteps were drawing closer, so Peter grabbed the locked and began jerking the lock so fast that I began to vibrate. Hopefully, if it vibrated enough, it would just, like, open.

Maybe Peter should have thought this whole plan through. Or at least brought a lock pick.

The footsteps were rounding the corner.

Peter went to duck back behind the display case.

_WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING, PETER?!_

Oh. Shit. Peter froze in true panic. Because unless his Jiminy Cricket had suddenly developed an angry, English accent—

_Yes, it's Charles, and yes, you're in deep trouble._

"Freeze!"

Double shit. Peter looked up to see a security guard pointing a gun and flashlight on him.

"Don't move!" the guard commanded. Peter briefly considered doing it just so he'd be shot; then he wouldn't have to face whatever hell was waiting for him at the mansion.

_Run, Peter._

Peter didn't need to be told twice. In a flash, he shot out past the security guard and for the exit. Just as he slammed into the emergency exit and alarms began to whirl, a shot rang out, and a white hot pain burned through Peter's thigh. He stumbled and rolled out onto the night-chilled pavement and clutched his wet, screaming leg.

"Out the north exit," the guard spat into his walkie-talkie as he chased Peter. "Be advised: suspect displays mutant powers."

Peter's eyes widened. In his personal experience, he'd found that when humans cared about whether or not he was a mutant, it wasn't out of polite curiosity.

Peter let go of his leg and shoved himself off the pavement. He hobbled a pained step and then another.

The guard leapt out of the door with a trained gun, and Peter helplessly froze. Suddenly, the guard lowered his weapon. He straightened. He stared right through Peter, and he spoke into his walkie-talkie, "Disregard my previous message. It was just a bird."

An amused, disbelieving voice cut back. "A bird, Ernie? You thought a bird was a mutant that can use doors?"

"Yes," Ernie said, staring at nothing like a zombie. "It was a rather large bird."

The other guard scoffed through the radio. "Yeah, OK, weirdo."

Ernie turned and stiffly marched back into the Met's emergency exit.

Peter blinked and then stumbled backwards. Charles might've saved him from that particular situation, but he wasn't exactly out of the woods from the Met guards. He ran as fast as his leg would let him, realizing that he wasn't exactly out of the woods when it came to the can of whoop-ass that was waiting for him at the mansion. Maybe if he went south instead of north—

 _If you aren't home within the next five minutes,_ Charles threatened, _you will regret your poor choices tenfold more than you already will._

Peter picked up the pace on his bleeding, stabbing leg and prayed that it would kill him the whole run home.

It took him just under five minutes to reach the mansion, and it was quite possibly the worst five minutes of Peter's life, his time with Stryker included.

As he nervously flashed up to the mansion's entrance on shaking legs (bullets mixed with speed powers apparently does that to a person), the front door swung open.

"For the record," Charles announced with a scowl, "I would like you to remember this night as Charles noticing whether or not you went to the moon and back."

Peter gulped.

And then a dark, tall figure launched himself out from behind Charles and rushed at Peter.

Peter stopped moving and fearfully braced himself.

Erik's expression was deadly. But when he reached his son, he grabbed him and crushed him against his chest. Just when Peter hesitantly went to hug him back, Erik released his son enough to slap him upside the head.

Peter winced and rubbed the back of his head.

" _Is your leg alright?_ " Erik demanded through clenched teeth.

"Uh…"

"He'll live," Charles announced from the doorway.

That was answer enough for Erik. He grabbed onto Peter's upper arm with a vice-like grip and all but dragged the teen into the mansion.

" _I did not raise an idiot for a son,_ " Erik seethed in German as he dragged Peter through the foyer and to the stairs that led to the basement. " _I did not spend six blasted years trapped in a plastic hellhole for you to die at the hands of_ _ **Ernie the security guard**_ _."_

Peter gritted his teeth as the stairs jostled his injured leg.

" _And I will not allow mindless ideas to become deadly secrets from you, Pietro!_ " Erik shoved his son onto the medical examination table and glared hard.

Hank walked up with a disapproving look and medical supplies. "I've gotta examine your leg, Peter. Take off the jeans."

Peter frowned as he struggled to pull off the jeans while sitting and injured. Dimly, he relished in the fact that the bullet had only ruined his pants and not his jacket.

"Yes!" Charles shouted angrily as he rolled into the medical bay. "Because God forbid you ruin your bloody jacket!"

Peter winced as he realized his mind was no longer a safe place. Poor Charles was going to give himself a headache for dipping into his head.

"Better a headache than a bullet wound, Peter," Charles snapped.

Hank prodded at the hole in Peter's thigh, causing more blood to spread across his cream-colored thigh. Peter held tightly onto the edge of the table as the pain rolled.

"No arterial damage," Hank noted as he prodded at the wound.

"Yes, I think we can gather that," Charles retorted, "considering he isn't yet dead."

Hank threw the Professor a look before returned to the bullet hole. "No exit wound."

"Allow me." Erik placed his hand over the wound, and the bullet flew out of Peter's leg almost as quickly as it had entered it.

Pain radiated through Peter's leg, and he gripped the table harder and groaned pitifully.

Erik firmly supported Peter at his shoulder and gave him a reluctantly sympathetic look. "Why do you insist on earning me a premature heart attack?"

Hank set to work on cleaning, anesthetizing, and stitching the wound.

Sweat had bloomed across Peter's forehead. His grimace never quite made its way to a grin. "If it makes you feel any better, I regret pretty much everything right now."

"You were irresponsible, Peter," Charles accused angrily. "Careless. And this hasn't been your first escapade, has it?"

Peter nervously looked between Cherik. "How much do you guys know…?"

Charles leaned forwards in his chair. "Everything."

Peter scowled and mentally called out Gabe for being a little snitch.

"Gabe had no choice in the matter," Charles said darkly. "In fact, his privacy was surrendered because you dragged him into your mess."

Peter felt a little bad about that.

"Done," Hank said after taping a gauze bandage to Peter's leg. He straightened and told the teen, "Take it easy. Running anywhere faster than a jog is gonna rupture your stitches."

Peter gaped. "A jog?!"

Hank began cleaning up and gave Peter a serious look. "Don't move any faster than your father can."

Peter felt nothing but horror.

"Don't look so surprised," Erik said forebodingly. "Your power privileges have been effectively revoked."

Peter's heart turned to stone and dropped somewhere into his stomach. "For how long?"

Erik looked to Charles. "For how long did you say Pietro was sneaking off?"

"Three months," the telepath responded promptly.

Erik turned back to his son. "There's a start."

Peter felt faint.

Erik latched onto his son's arm and pulled him off the table. He wrapped an arm under Peter's shoulders to support the majority of his weight and then dragged him out of the room. Charles stoically followed them to the elevator.

"Dad, I was doing it to help people," Peter pled weakly as Erik stabbed the second floor's button. "I saved so many people—"

"You don't have to explain a thing," Charles cut in, staring ahead like Erik. "We've seen your mind, Peter; we know all of it."

Peter gulped. All of it meant they knew why he had pushed himself hard enough to fall into the pond.

"Yes," Charles said.

And they knew about Azazel.

Charles's jaw clenched.

The elevator doors opened, and Erik hauled his son down the hallway.

"Dad, we have to get your helmet back," Peter pled again. "We don't stand a chance against that She-devil without protection!"

Erik shoved Peter's bedroom door open and dragged his son inside. Charles continued to follow.

Erik pushed Peter onto his bed and then glared. "We have Charles. We do not need the helmet."

"But it'd help—"

" _Even_ ," Erik snapped, "if we decided that the helmet would redeem our efforts, we would not rely on a thirteen-year-old child to retrieve it."

That actually kinda hurt. "I'm not a kid. I've been working on my powers because I knew you two—"

" _You are a child!_ " Erik shouted, leaning closer to the teen. "You are too young to comprehend the significance of your recklessness tonight, but rest assured, you will accept the repercussions."

Peter scowled up at his father. "If I'm too reckless to get it, how come I'm saving people while you have to kill to get what you want?!"

Erik leaned back as his stoic mask slid into place. "You can't understand."

"You know what? You're right!" Peter shot back. "I guess I'll just never get how my own dad could be OK with killing another person. But whatever. Apparently, I'm just too stupid to understand murder."

"Peter, that's enough!" Charles snapped, looking tensely between the men.

Erik was entirely motionless as he stared down at his son. After a moment, he said, "Do not step a foot out of this mansion."

Peter was about to fight for his right to the grounds when something shiny caught his eye. He looked to his left just in time to see a metallic band lock itself around Peter's left wrist. Panic slapped his heart as he saw the metal bracelet placed over his scars. It felt like the old one. It felt like Stryker's prison.

"Get it off!" Peter demanded, immediately using his speed to try prying it apart.

"Erik," Charles cautioned.

Erik grabbed his son's hands and knelt before him. "This isn't all those years ago. This isn't the promise that I couldn't keep. This is for here; this is for now. Because I can't live anymore unless I know that you are alright."

But Peter couldn't hear him; he could only feel the years of torture and waiting and entrapment. He couldn't stand this. He couldn't do it again. Peter's eyes flooded with tears as he desperately begged, "Please, Papa. I'll be good. I'll be good, I promise."

Horror flooded Erik as he realized the trauma that his desires were inflicting on his son. His hand immediately twitched, and the bracelet snapped open and fell to the carpet.

Peter's breaths were short and sharp as his tears ran. Erik grabbed his son into his arms tightly, hating himself in that moment. Peter was everything good. He was saving people. He was humor. He was do anything for others.

What right did _Magneto_ have to inflict more pain on this clean soul?

Peter wept into his father's neck and buried his fists into Erik's dark shirt.

"Shh," Erik murmured, closing his eyes against the pain of it all. "I'm sorry. I will never hurt you, Pietro. I'm so sorry."

Peter's hands tightened against Erik's back. " _Please don't leave!_ "

Erik's tears escaped, and he brushed Peter's hair. "Never."

Peter sobbed, and Erik felt every part of him crack more and more at each cry. Slowly, he sat down against the bed, pulling his son to him.

Through watery vision, Erik caught Charles's mournful eyes. Charles lightly indicated his head towards the wailing teen. Erik pressed his lips together and gave a nod. Charles stared at the teen.

Peter fell slack in Erik's arms, immediately asleep.

Erik breathed through his mouth and adjusted his grip on his limp son.

"You couldn't've known," Charles said quietly.

Erik couldn't bring himself to respond to that. He couldn't even begin to digest everything he was feeling with words.

"Call for me if you would like me to come back," Charles said and then solemnly rolled himself out of the bedroom.

Erik watched him go, trying to process a way to call him immediately back. But when the elevator dinged down the hall, Erik used his powers to gently close the bedroom door.

With only the moonlight lighting the room, Erik clutched his son across his chest and tried to match his erratic breathing to Peter's.

The bracelet melted away into the carpet and slithered out through the window, never to be seen again.

 

* * *

 

When Peter awoke the next morning, his face felt puffy. And he could feel sunlight coming in through the window. Usually, he awoke at the crack of dawn with the energy of a thousand sugar-fueled children.

He opened his eyes and realized that he was still without his jeans and under the covers. His silver jacket was hung over the bed post. And Erik Lehnsherr was sprawled out on beside him, lying on the blue covers with eyes closed and a hand behind his head.

As his thigh pricked with pain, the events of last night flooded Peter with a healthy coating of dread and embarrassment.

Well, maybe Peter could sneak out of bed and avoid everyone for the rest of his life. He tensed in preparation to do just that.

"If you even think of using your powers," Erik threatened without opening his eyes, "you won't be sitting for a week."

Peter didn't even blink, for fear of disturbing this dragon.

Erik slowly opened his eyes and looked down at his son. "How's your leg?"

Peter swallowed against his dry throat and hoarsely croaked, "Fine." He considered that. "Unless pain will get me out of whatever punishment you have for me. In that case, it's unbearable agony."

Erik calmly let his head turn back to look at the ceiling. "Did last night's events not instill an aversion to lying?"

Peter meekly pressed his head deeper into his pillow. "I wanna say yes, but double negatives always mess me up."

Erik looked back to his son and reached towards Peter's head. Peter tensed, slightly fearful. But Erik's hand just started brushing through Peter's hair at a soothing rate. "Sharing this bed feels like we're back in 1963 again."

Peter was confused. After everything last night, he thought his dad would be furiously through the roof. Not reminiscing with a gentle touch. Had Peter's sobs really done the trick?

"I've had a long period of reflection," Erik answered the confusion on his son's face. "And I would like to first apologize for the memories I forced you into when I…" His hand paused, and he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Pietro."

"'s OK," Peter mumbled, feeling bad for reacting so poorly.

"Concerning your New York City trips," Erik continued in a stern tone while his hand resumed its brushing, "I can appreciate your intentions. You wanted to make the world a better place, and you didn't believe you could do so without keeping it a secret."

Peter swallowed and nodded.

"But, _Pietro_ ," Erik said, stopping his brushing to cup the back of his son's head, "can you look at it through my eyes, through Charles's eyes? There are government agencies and mutants targeting you specifically. Not only that, but you were chasing dangerous criminals without training or support. It was reckless."

"I'm sorry," Peter murmured, seeing his father's perspective.

"And you _lied_ ," Erik emphasized. "That's an assault to our relationship, son. To ours, and to yours with Charles. And you dragged that Summers boy into this mess."

Sorrow swelled back into Peter's lungs, and he looked down. "I'm sorry."

"We will work on increasing the training of your powers, Pietro," Erik said sincerely as he stroked the back of his son's head. "All you ever had to do was ask."

"But you wouldn't've let me help those people and try to stop Emma," Peter protested.

"You're right." Erik dropped his hand to the comforter. "Because without training and support, it was recklessly endangering." He gave Peter a significant look. "And I believe we discussed that already at the beginning of the year."

Peter couldn't really fight that.

"I don't want you to feel that you have to keep secrets from me, Pietro. And in order to promote that level of trust, I will work on truly considering your suggestions. Even if they… aren't to my taste."

Peter grinned. "You've been talking with Charles."

Erik scowled at the ceiling, but there was a fondness deep in his eyes. "He wouldn't shut up all night."

Peter threw his arms around his father's torso and squeezed. "I'm sorry. For lying. And sneaking out. And being dumb."

Erik blinked and then rested his hand on Peter's back. "I care for nothing more than I do for you. Please consider that the next time you entertain another of your hair-brained schemes."

Peter smirked. "No promises."

Erik rolled his eyes. "I believe you owe Charles an apology as well."

Peter pulled back to sit up.

"He was affected by all of this as well," Erik explained. "It appears that years of forcing your presence into his life has made him care for you."

"Well, duh. I'm adorable."

"And a pain in my ass," Erik muttered and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Peter sprang out of the bed and then winced against the pull of his stitches.

"Dr. McCoy will have something for the pain," Erik said and marched towards his son with a stiff point. "As for your punishment, unless dictated by Charles or I, you will forgo your powers for a month."

"A month," Peter repeated faintly.

"Perhaps longer."

Perhaps Peter was going to faint.

"You will also assist Charles with whatever household chores he requests of you."

"For how long?" Peter asked with a large amount of trepidation. Because speeding through a chore was one thing, but to be forced into slow-moving cleaning by an angry Brit…

"Indefinitely."

Perhaps Peter ought to sit down.

Erik clapped his gaping son on the back and led him out of the bedroom. "And if you find yourself bored after completing chores, rest assured that I will find extra school assignments for you to complete."

Peter was beginning to doubt the sincerity of Erik's love for him.

 

* * *

 

"Sorry, Charles," Peter said when the telepath rolled into the kitchen.

Charles looked over to see the meek teen chowing down on a brunch of toast, eggs, and bacon. He gave him a reluctantly accepting smile.

Erik sat across from Peter, reading the newspaper. "Better than that, Pietro."

Peter abandoned his plate of food to march over and kneel at the wheels of Charles's chair. "You're the best pretend uncle a boy could ask for. I was stupid, and I hurt you. I was reckless, I was ignorant to the wills of my fathers, I was blindsided by the duty that I—"

"Tone it down," Erik said, taking a drink of his coffee and keeping his eyes on the paper.

Peter came back to himself. "You deserved the truth, Charles, and I'm sorry I didn't give it to you."

Charles was wearing a grin by this point. "Apology accepted."

Peter smiled and slowly (a normal person's run) returned to his food.

Erik continued reading the paper as he scooted a full plate of food in Charles's direction. Charles blinked and then let his smile bloom as he wheeled himself up to the place setting.

"It'll never happen again," Peter vowed and stuffed a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

"Ha!" Charles grinned in delight. "If it did, I would kill you myself!" He happily took a bite of his eggs.

Peter froze. There was just something unnerving about that man more-than-happily threatening your life.

"After we eat, I was thinking we could clean out the mansions' gutters," Charles said smugly and ate his food.

Peter stared in horror at his brunch. Because he knew that Charles was saying "we" out of courtesy; that evil genius expected the teen to go around the massive estate. _At a snail's pace._

The corner of Charles's mouth curled as he sipped his coffee.

 

* * *

 

_**June 1970, North Salem, New York** _

The past month and a half had been about as fun as watching paint dry for Peter. He had been on heavily restricted power use (even after Peter got his stitches taken out). He had burned through all of his comics multiple times over. He had been Charles's resident handyman. He had been given extra reading and forced to practice German and assigned additional math problems. And Peter's only friend had been actively ignoring him the entire time.

Well, today was the day it that would stop. Because it was the last week of classes before summer, and Peter had just been allowed to use his powers freely (as long as he remained on the grounds).

Peter had been burning circles in the grass ever since.

But he got bored. Because zipping around was only so fun if you had someone to share it with. So Peter ran up to his father's room.

But the door was locked. Hmm. Erik rarely locked his door. Peter tried pushing his ear to the door, but he couldn't hear a thing. He stuffed his hand to his jeans' pocket and fished out his newly acquired lock pick set (courtesy of a package sent by Raven, inscribed with a note that read "Nice work at the Met. Next time, go for the Picasso.")

Just as Peter set to work on the lock, the tool floated out of his hands and the door flew inwards. Erik stood in the opening, blocking Peter from entering (or peering in).

Peter gave his dad a weird look. "Why is your shirt all gross?"

Erik scowled and pulled his half-buttoned, flannel shirt further over his exposed chest. "What is it, Pietro?"

Peter stared in confusion at his father. Erik's hair was sticking up wildly. (And that man was a nitpicker when it came to hair. Peter's regularly scheduled haircuts showed as much.) Peter looked at the hair, the opened shirt, and then down to where Erik's unbuckled belt dangled from the belt loops. And then it clicked.

" _Oh, God!_ " Peter exclaimed, reeling back in horror. "Here I was, innocently trying to break into your room because I thought you were lonely, but, _holy crap_ , you were having—"

Erik leapt forwards, clamped his hand over Peter's mouth, and all but dragged him into the bedroom. The door slammed closed not a second later. "For Christ's sake, Pietro, keep your voice down!"

But Peter wasn't paying attention to Erik at this point. His eyes were glued to the sheepish telepath sitting out of his chair, on the bed. His collared shirt's first few buttons were similarly undone, and his long hair was unkempt.

"Hello, Peter," Charles greeted with a small grin as Erik released the teen.

Peter's eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open into a delighted grin. "You guys were doing the dirty!"

Charles wrinkled his nose at the terminology.

"We were _not_ ," Erik growled as he dropped into the chair at his desk. "And what I do privately does not concern you, Pietro."

"Uh, I think it does!" Peter said, never dropping his elated grin. "This is basically the exact happy ending of that _Parent Trap_ movie!" He grimaced slightly. "Ah, God, that makes me Susan or Sharon. Man, why don't I have a twin?"

Erik dropped his face into his hand.

"How do you know what sex is?" Charles asked the teen with narrowed eyes. Erik mirrored the look at Peter.

Peter blushed. "Uh… I mean, I lived pretty much everywhere last year. I kinda figured it out." Erik's unhappily narrowed eyes didn't waver.

"Well," Charles said, slightly amused, "your enthusiasm is appreciated, no matter how premature it might be."

Erik looked significantly over to his lover.

"And your discretion will be equally appreciated," Charles finished polishedly, despite his anything-but-polished appearance.

Peter grew a sly grin. "Of course."

"We know about your little gossip circle," Erik accused, turning back to his son with the narrowed eyes.

"What gossip circle?" Peter responded innocently.

"It would be such a shame to have your power privileges revoked the very day they were reinstated," Charles responded back, equally innocently.

Peter raised his eyebrows and turned his smile into one of politeness. "Point taken. Well, it was good catching up, you two. Feel free to carry on with…" He backed towards the door and flailed his hands towards them. "…whatever you were doing."

While Charles grinned, Erik's eyes turned to slits.

Peter knew that look; he dashed out of the door and down the hall before his dad could pin him with another chore or homework assignment.

Peter sprinted up the stairs. Because, yeah, Cherik had kinda banned him from spilling the beans to Jean and Hank. But he had to gush about this HISTORIC DEVELOPMENT to _someone_! So Peter ran for Gabe's room. Because while he and Gabe had been distant for the past month, Peter was gonna say whatever it took to make amends with his only similarly-aged friend.

Peter ran to the door and went to open it, but he stopped himself. Gabe was mad at him because Peter had ensured that his privacy had been exploited. So Peter could give him his boundaries. Peter could knock.

Peter raised his knuckles to the door, but a voice inside made him pause.

"Gabe, you're better than this!"

Was that… Jean's voice?

"Nobody asked you!" That was Gabe's voice. "Why don't you go back to sucking my brother's face off?"

"If you don't tell the Professor, I will."

" _Get out of my head!_ "

Screw knocking. Peter grabbed the doorknob and shoved the door open just in time to see Gabe's glowing hands shoot a blast of energy straight at Jean.

Jean crumpled to the floor, motionless.

"Gabe!" Peter looked between the two in horror.

"Get out of here, Peter," Gabe grumbled as he pulled his shoes on.

Peter sped over to Jean and checked her pulse. It was there; she was breathing.

"It just knocks 'em out," Gabe muttered and tied his shoes. "Scott would be pissed if I killed his girlfriend."

"What the hell is going on, man?!" Peter demanded, jumping to his full height.

"It doesn't matter," Gabe told him, scowling behind his glasses. "You're not a part of this."

Peter looked to Jean and then back to Gabe. "Yeah, and I don't think you should be either! Whatever is happening, I think Jean was right—we gotta talk to Charles."

Gabe gritted his teeth. "No! He's not touching my head again!"

"Gabe, that doesn't matter right now," Peter reasoned desperately. "Jean needs help. And you obviously are up to something bad."

Gabe glared at Peter's shoes.

"Come on, man," Peter tried again softly. "Just… let's just go talk to the professor about whatever, alright? He cares. We all do."

There was a beat before Gabe raised his head. "Yeah. Fine."

Peter blinked in surprise. That was easy. Like… too easy? Peter decided to roll with it. He led the way down to Erik's room, constantly checking over his shoulder to make sure moody Gabe was following.

Peter gave a brief, one-knock knock before pushing the door open.

Erik and Charles looked up from where they sat on the bed, engaged in a game of chess. What nerds.

"Hey," Peter began nervously, "so Gabe—"

A blast of energy soared past Peter's left and hit both adults at once. Peter gaped in pained horror as Charles fell back on the mattress. Erik, who had his legs dangling off the side of the bed, toppled to the floor, causing the chess game to clattered down with him.

"No, no, no, no, no, no!" Peter rushed towards them and checked for breathing. Yeah, they were breathing, but… "Gabe?!" Peter stared in revulsion at his small, dark-haired friend. "What did you do?!"

Gabe held his glowing hands up, pointing the energy at the unconscious adults. "I'm doing what's best for me."

Peter fell to his knees beside his father. Erik's face was relaxed into a stoic blankness. He wasn't ever supposed to look like that. He was Peter's _dad_. And he looked dead.

"You're gonna help me," Gabe told Peter, keeping his power aimed at the defenseless men.

"Screw you, Gabe!" Peter screamed, tears of betrayal pricking at his eyes. "You can hate me for sucking you into my mess, but my dad—"

"Shut up!" Gabe commanded, his hands' brewing energy growing wider. "You're gonna help me, or I'm gonna kill them!"

Spiked revulsion clenched Peter's heart as he saw that Gabe was serious. "I'm not gonna let you."

Gabe glared, and his glowing power grew impossibly larger. "You want to race?!"

Peter was pretty sure he could take him. Pretty sure.

But Gabe… Gabe was his friend.

"What do you want my help with, Gabe?" Peter asked.

"We're getting that stupid helmet," Gabe declared.

Oh. Like, Cherik was gonna kill him, but Peter could get behind that.

"And then no one will touch my mind again," Gabe finished with a scowl towards the unconscious telepath.

So this was a vengeance thing…? Peter ran a hand through his long, silver hair. "Yeah, alright, man. I can run us to the Pentagon in, like, a minute."

"I'll meet you there," Gabe said and walked over to throw open the window.

With his back turned, this was the perfect opportunity to tackle the crazy adolescent. But Peter couldn't bring himself to do it. Because this was Gabe. Gabe, the rational kid from Milwaukie, that didn't do anything without a good reason.

Gabe pushed himself through the window and then pointed his glowing hands to the dirt. Steadily, he rose and demonstrated his ability to fly.

Peter stared in wonder, not believing that he never knew his friend could fly.

"Southwest corner," Gabe said. And then he shot off into the sky.

Peter stared in shock as he blindly fished his goggles out of his pocket and strapped them on. He adjusted his silver jacket, gave the men on the floor a final, panicked look, and then clambered out the window.

 

* * *

 

_**Meanwhile in Bronx, New York** _

The overweight man with a scrappy beard and trucker's hat smoothly drank a Long Island Iced Tea. His eyes drifted towards the fuzzy football game on the TV, but he wasn't here for the entertainment.

"Call for you, Abe," the bartender said, extending the corded phone across the counter.

"Abe" set down his drink and accepted the phone. He waited until the bartender tended to customers at the other end of the bar before speaking. "Yes?"

"You said to call if I ever saw that silver-haired kid again," a man with a Boston accent said.

"And you have?" "Abe" pushed his drink aside.

"Yeah, spotted outside the fucking Pentagon."

"Abe" went very, very still. "And did your contact say what he was doing there?"

"Hell if I know. 'Parently, some glowing kid dropped outta the sky right next to that silver-haired one. They sped the hell outta there a second later."

"Abe" thrummed his fingers against the bar. "If anything else develops, call the satellite phone."

"You got it."

"Abe" effortlessly rose from the bar stool and glided towards the phone's cradle. He disconnected the call and then began to dial a familiar number.

"Hey, that's not a public phone," the bartender called over, mid mixing drinks.

"Abe" gave him a charming smile. "I'll make it quick."

The bartender grudgingly returned to the customers.

"Abe" finished dialing the number and listened to it ring for an inappropriately long time.

"Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," Hank breathlessly answered. "Dr. McCoy speaking."

"Get Charles."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Are you a parent? Because the school year ends on Friday, and you can—"

" _Get Charles._ "

"Who is this?"

"Abe" groaned dramatically. "Get the bastard metal-bender for all I care, just let me talk to the owner of the mutant running amuck at the Pentagon."

"What— _Raven?_ "

"For God's sake, Hank," "Abe" spat, "this is important!"

"Yeah, OK, hold on."

"Abe" rolled his eyes. He didn't have time for this. "No. Hang up. I'll call back." He waited for the click, and then he hung up the phone.

"Carl!" "Abe" called over as he began leafing through a pile of money.

The bartender glanced over before trotting to his most loyal customer.

"What do I owe you?" "Abe" asked.

Carl's eyebrows rose. "You're paying out the tab?"

"Abe" waited.

"Yeah, I'll ring you up," Carl said and headed for the cash register.

"Abe" pulled a satellite phone out of his jacket pocket and redialed the number. As it rang, he pushed the requested amount of money onto Carl's receipt and then headed for the back exit of the bar.

The blonde-haired Raven clutched the phone to her ear as she hailed a taxi.

"Can I call you back?" Hank requested suddenly, sounding even more breathless than before.

Raven gaped and climbed into the back of the cab. "No! It's about Peter, Hank!"

There was a clambering sound in the background as Hank said, "What? Peter's here."

After spouting the mansion's address off to the driver, Raven demanded of her ex-boyfriend, "How is it that I leave for six months and the school has already turned into a circus?!"

"If you're gonna bitch, I'm hanging up." The phone was pulled away for Hank to shout, " _Alex! What the hell did you do with those smelling salts?!"_

Raven ground her teeth, putting the pieces together. "Hank, is Charles alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," he responded absentmindedly. "He's just a little knocked out."

Raven remained incredibly tense. "And his boyfriend?"

Hank made a disbelieving sound. "They're not dating, Raven. But, yeah. Both were fine. Unconscious."

Yelling echoed in the distance of the call.

"Shit," Hank muttered. "I gotta go, OK? Oh, uh, where did you say Peter was?"

Raven rolled her eyes and ended her side of the call. She leaned forwards and held up a promising wad of cash. "It's yours if you get me there in thirty minutes."

The driver buckled his seatbelt and stomped on the gas.

 

* * *

 

_**Meanwhile in Arlington, Virginia** _

Peter was actually out of breath. He panted as he clutched the helmet. Because it had been a while since he last used his powers, and he had been asked to run all the way to Virginia, take out any guards that popped up, vibrate and shatter the glass encasing the helmet, and then break back out of the Pentagon.

"Good job, Peter," Gabe said and reached for the helmet.

Peter stared at him and pulled it from his reach. "What's this all been about, man? How come you had to get this helmet so freaking bad that you were willing to blast the Professor for it?"

Gabe glowered, his hands beginning to glow. "I made a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"Freeze!" A guard popped out the back exit of the building and trained his gun between the two of them.

Peter puffed a breath, about to rush the guard and knock him out.

But Gabe reacted first. He held up a hand, and a blast of energy shot at the guard. The guard flew back into the concrete wall, smacking his head with a sickening thud, before smearing blood downwards as he slid to the pavement.

Peter gawked at Gabe. " _Hey!_ We don't kill people!"

"I'm not you!" Gabe shouted back, his glowing hands never dimming.

Peter fully believed that his friend had lost it. More than that, his friend was a murderer now. And Gabe didn't even care.

"Come on," Gabe grumbled, rising into the air. "We're going back to the mansion."

"What?" Peter sputtered. "Already? Aren't you gonna, like, run off with the helmet into the sunset first?"

Gabe glared down at his friend, snatched the helmet, and put it on. "I'll meet you at the gates." And then he disappeared into the sky.

Peter tightened his goggles. Like hell he was meeting him at the gates. Peter shot off for New York, faster than a bullet. He was going to stop stupid Gabe from doing whatever stupid idea he stupidly was executing.

 _Charles,_ Peter mentally pled, desperately pushing his thoughts into the void. _Charles? Charles? Charles?_

No one responded.

Five minutes later, Peter stumbled down the road of the mansion. He was actually pretty exhausted now. That was a lot of running for his first day back at it.

Right as he reached the gates, his feet stumbled. It was probably because he was tired. But then his feet stopped moving altogether.

And a sinister grip wedged itself between his brain and skull.

Peter couldn't move. His breathing sped, but he was otherwise motionless outside of the mansion's gates. This felt familiar. This felt too damn familiar, because the last time he got stuck outside the front of the mansion—

_Hello, darling._

 

* * *

 

When Erik came to, he was lying on the floor with Alex hovering anxiously over him.

On the bed, Charles held his head with a grimace. Erik looked suspiciously around his bedroom as he sat up.

"Are you guys OK?" Alex asked, offering a hand to Erik.

Erik eyed the man but accepted the help up. "Where is your idiot brother?"

Alex paled. "What do you mean? We've been looking everywhere for Gabe. And Peter."

A letter opener flew off the desk and pressed itself into the skin of Alex's throat.

"Erik, _stop_ ," Charles commanded with a scowl. "He doesn't know."

Erik glowered at his coworker but let the blade drop to the carpet.

Alex stared at him, insulted. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" He rubbed at his neck and stumbled back a step.

Hank ran into the room with Jean and Scott right on his heels. He looked between the now-awake mutants and breathed out a breath of relief.

"You seen Gabe?" Scott demanded of his brother, his tone bitter.

Alex was horribly confused. "No! Someone tell me what the hell is going on!"

"He freaking blasted Jean, that's what!" Scott shouted angrily.

"Gabriel appears to have dangerous motives," Charles said calmly.

Erik looked to his friend, fear pricking his heart.

"Peter didn't know," Charles answered his unspoken question.

"Then where are they?" Hank asked with a furrowed brow.

As Charles let his mental reach drift, his muscles clenched.

Erik saw the difference instantly. "What is it?"

Anger clouded Charles's eyes. "Jean, Scott—I need you to gather all of the students. Bring them to the basement bunker. Do not leave until we retrieve you."

Jean and Scott looked to each other and ran from the room.

Erik leaned over the bed and kept his intense stare on the telepath. "Who's here?"

"Everyone," Charles answered, his angry eyes distant. "Frost. Azazel. Someone named Trask. Armed men. Raven. Gabriel. Peter."

Horror swept through Erik at the final name.

"What're we gonna do?" Hank asked anxiously.

The doorbell rang.

"We're going to let them in," Charles said.

 

* * *

 

Peter couldn't do a thing. He could only watch, frozen to his spot on the front lawn. He'd been forced to watch as Gabe descended from the sky, helmet in hand. He'd been forced to watch as Emma and a dwarf man stepped out of a slick Mercedes. The man was unfamiliar with his large mustache, glasses, and expensive suit. Peter'd been forced to watch the man happily put on the helmet. He'd been forced to watch Raven pull up in a taxi and launch herself as Azazel. Now, he was forced to watch the blue Raven be pinned to a tree by Azazel's tail.

And then the van pulled up. And another van. And another van. And another, and another. Five vans, each of them driven by a trained mercenary. Peter had been forced to watch as the five stepped out of their vans and flanked the villains.

 _Raise the gun to your head_ , Emma mentally commanded Peter.

Peter looked down and was horrified to see an all-plastic gun in his hand. Without asking his permission, his hand raised the gun to his head. It didn't move from that position.

One of the mercenaries rang the doorbell, plastic gun at the ready.

Peter's heart sped in fear as they waited.

And then the door did open. Charles sat in his wheelchair, taking up the majority of the doorway. Beside him, Erik's eyes scanned the front yard and then locked onto Peter. He visibly tensed at the sight of his son holding a gun to his own head, and he took an instinctive step forwards. The mercenary slammed a palm into Erik's chest, and Erik snapped his furious gaze to the armed man.

"You don't move unless the Commander allows it," the mercenary told him.

"Of course," Charles agreed easily, looking to the crowd of people on his front lawn. "And may we ask who the Commander is?" But his eyes were already locked on Trask.

Peter saw Hank and Alex flanking the Professor in the shadow of the door.

The small man in the helmet stepped forwards and offered a shrewd grin. "Dr. Bolivar Trask. And you must be Charles Xavier."

"Doctor, actually," Charles corrected politely. "Or Professor, if you'd prefer."

Trask's smile became tight. "May we come inside, Professor?"

"It's a beautiful day," Charles commented with an appreciative look to the clear sky. "I'd prefer we remain out here." His eyes swiveled to Peter. "And without the guns, if you'd please."

So slowly that Peter hadn't noticed, a soft hand had slipped into his mind. At once, it seized the sharp grip that reigned there. But Emma wasn't stupid; she'd prepared for the attack.

As Peter felt Emma's grip get forcibly pried from his mind, his hand cocked the gun and placed a finger over the trigger.

Charles's telepathic reach froze.

Peter could feel Emma's smugness as her telepathy was released; her icy grip on Peter's mind returned.

Erik's chest heaved desperate breaths as he watched his son. Charles's cool gaze turned hard. A growl could be heard from just inside the doorway.

Trask looked to Peter and then back to Cherik. "Apologies for the drama, but I think we should clarify the ground rules?" He strolled closer to the mutants. "If you use your powers on any of our men, the boy will shoot himself. If your fellow mutants use their mutations against us, the boy will shoot himself. Or I'll have the blue girl killed. Or both—I'm not biased."

Erik's hands trembled with rage as he stared at Trask.

The metal of Trask's helmet began to groan and tighten, and Peter felt his finger press harder against the trigger.

" _Dad, no!_ " Peter sputtered, a desperate sob punctuating his cry. His face crumpled at how close to death he stood. At the hands of Emma.

Erik immediately stopped and darted his eyes over to Peter. His eyes swam with grief and fury as he realized how tightly Peter was gripping the gun.

Trask was breathing hard as he held the helmet. And then he let out a low laugh. "Your friends think I'm bluffing, Professor." He turned his vicious smile on Charles and commanded, "Azazel."

Azazel let go of Raven long enough to draw back his spear-headed tail and stab it straight through her abdomen. She fell back against the tree, sputtering and gasping. Azazel pulled his tail out with a sickening, wet sound.

"NO!" Hank screamed, pushing past Charles and Erik and stepping into the sun. He stopped as the mercenary pointed his gun at his head. Hank's form burst into his blue self as he turned his seething glare on Trask. "If she dies, _I will kill you!_ "

Trask was distantly amused as he returned his gaze to Charles. "You have quite the friends, Professor. And you're just hiding them away in this place!" He grinned. "You know, I was beginning to believe that this school didn't truly exist. You'd wiped it from the minds of every normal person, and even some mutants." He eyed him with suspicious amusement. "A bit of a trust issue there?"

Erik glanced to Charles. Charles remained still and answered, "After Stryker, the students' safety became a top priority."

"And where are the students?" Trask asked excitedly. "I would love to meet the newest recruits."

"Recruits?" Alex demanded, stepping forwards. His eyes strayed to Gabe.

Gabe turned his gaze to the grass.

"Yes, I've been developing a project of Sentinels," Trask declared with an excited grin. "And mutant DNA will speed the development along tenfold."

Peter's blood went cold. This was Stryker all over again.

"My children are not lab rats," Charles ground out through clenched teeth.

Trask's expression turned patronizing. "Don't worry, Professor; I'll probably release them once I've gotten what I want." He glanced to Emma and then turned back to Charles. "Unfortunately for you, Lehnsherr, and the boy—you'll have to be executed afterwards." He grimaced apologetically. "Nothing personal, just collateral damage to ensure this deal goes smoothly."

Erik ripped his eyes off of his son to glower at Emma. "You would betray your own kind to help another Stryker?"

Emma's nostrils flared, and Peter felt the grip on his mind clench tightly. "Trask may have similar ideals to that bastard, but he didn't kill my sister. Stryker did, and I've already killed him for it. But _Charles_ let her die. _Peter_ let her die. And I know you too well, Erik—you'll never stop hunting me after I kill your family."

The helmet, the zippers on Peter's jacket, and the line of cars began to vibrate.

"You can pull all of the metal from his body," Emma told Erik with a nod towards Trask, "but what would I then do to Peter? Or you could try to drain me, but, again, what would I do to Peter in the meantime?" Her full lips curved into a vicious smirk.

The metal in the area rattled noisily, and Erik growled, " _I will not lose another child._ "

Trask calmly glanced around and said, "You know, I would like to study you mutants while you're breathing, but it really isn't a requirement."

Erik clenched his jaw and forced himself to stop manipulating the metal.

Charles kept his eyes locked on Trask. But Erik's eyes darted to the telepath, just for a millisecond. It was all it took to make Emma snap her gaze to the men.

Multiple things happened simultaneously after that.

First, Charles attacked Emma's hold on Peter's mind. The grip there was gripped itself, not moving off, but not allowed to control Peter further.

Second, Erik threw his hand out towards Trask.

Third, the helmet was launched off of Trask's head and flew to the right.

Fourth, all five mercenaries fired their guns on Xavier and Lehnsherr.

But fifth, and this was the most important: the helmet landed on Peter's head.

With his mind suddenly freed, Peter dropped the gun to the grass and sped towards his parents. Because he was fast. And he was capable. And he could beat every single bad guy here without killing a single one.

Because he wasn't a saint. He wasn't a superhero. He was so much better— _he was Quicksilver_.

Peter smirked, snapped his goggles down from under the helmet, and rushed at the fired bullets. He got there just as one was touching Erik's cheek. Peter pushed it aside, letting it simply graze his father's cheek (because what's a good story without a battle wound, anyways?).

Peter flicked the other three aimed at his father into the ground. The final bullet was about to imbed itself in Charles's heart. Peter pushed it upwards so that it skimmed through the shoulder of Charles's shirt and sank into his chair.

Peter turned with a wide, proud grin and assessed the situation. Trask. Emma. Azazel. Gabe… Five trained muscle. He interlocked and stretched his fingers before deciding to work through the individuals.

He ran at the first gunman, tossed his gun to the grass, and had him punch his own lights out. Peter did likewise with the second. At the third and fourth, he got creative: Peter pushed their heads together, knowing that they'll slam skulls and knock each other out. At the fifth, Peter grabbed his gun, fished the sunglasses off of his shirt and put them over his goggles, gave the man a wedgie that would possibly end in a chronic condition, and then punched him in the face.

Peter turned to the next four problems. He ran and kicked Trask's face, knocking him over. Peter used that momentum to launch at Gabe and delivered a solid punch to the kid's face. Gabe's glasses slowly began to shatter as the boy tipped backwards, and Peter shook his hand against the immediate pain from that stupid idea.

Two to go. Emma first? Or Azazel? Emma was possibly more dangerous… But Azazel stood a better chance against Peter…

Seeing that Charles and Emma were telepathically duking it out in that frozen second, Peter decided to go for the red monster. He ran towards where Azazel hovered over Raven's collapsed form, intent on tackling that vicious dude.

But Azazel's reflexes were quick; they had to be with a power like his. Just as Peter's fist extended towards Azazel's face, Azazel teleported his hand to latch onto Peter's wrist. Peter was only able to skim his knuckles against Azazel's jaw when they suddenly disappeared.

Time resumed. And Peter realized that everyone was far, far below him. He looked up in a panic to see Azazel sneering at the boy and gripping his wrist hard enough to bruise. Just as Azazel opened his hand for Peter to plummet, Peter's frantic fingers darted out and latched onto the lapels of Azazel's black dress shirt.

The two teleported to the ground, and the unexpected weight of the teen sent them crashing into the earth and rolling.

On the porch, Charles gritted his teeth and shouted in pain as he fought to control Emma's powers. Emma glared at him, pouring all of her strength into her battle for dominance.

Peter blinked woozily up at the sky, his head pounding from the harsh impact and his body drained from overworking itself. His helmet and goggles remained intact, but the sunglasses had fallen off.

Azazel leapt on him immediately, knocking away the little air he'd managed to get back into his lungs. His tail retracted upwards before stabbing down. Peter was able to use energy he didn't know he had to quickly wiggle to the side, letting the speared tip land in his shoulder rather than his heart.

Peter screamed out in agony.

With a flash of blue, Azazel was suddenly knocked off of Peter. Peter dazedly watched as Badass Raven Darkholme shoved the teleporter into the grass and then wrapped her legs around his neck in a chokehold.

Peter didn't think he'd ever meet anyone as inspiring as that woman.

Azazel teleported them towards the mansion and slammed her back against the solid wall. The wall became colored with her blood, but Mystique didn't let up on her grip.

Before Azazel had time to see, Beast launched himself at the red mutant. The three of them collapsed into the flower bed, and Azazel was able to kick Beast off of him. Azazel disappeared, Raven still latched around his throat.

The two landed in the center of the driveway, and Mystique hissed in pain as they hit the concrete. Azazel fell back into the pavement, and Raven involuntarily released him to clench her bleeding abdomen. Azazel grinned darkly down at her. Raven watched him, and then her eyes widened. She rolled away as quickly as she could, drawing a path of her blood against the cement.

Azazel was glaring at her in confusion when a van flew through the air and smashed the red mutant from behind. Azazel went flying with the vehicle, landed in a bloody, broken heap underneath the van, and didn't get up.

Raven scowled over at Erik. "You almost killed me, you bastard!"

Erik didn't look troubled by that. He turned and looked to Peter.

Peter was watching him with a dazed grin, reflecting on how badass he and his family were. Unfortunately, he didn't see Trask pick up a plastic gun, crawl over, and then slam the barrel into Peter's forehead. Peter made his hazy vision focus on the man holding him at gun point.

Trask's glasses were broken and dangled from his ears, and he threw the remnants to the ground while keeping his gun trained on Peter's head. He glared at Erik and barked, "I will shoot him if you try anything!"

Erik's wide-eyed glower didn't waver from Bolivar.

A blast to the side of the mansion had everyone instinctively wincing away. They all looked over to see Gabe trembling, holding up glowing hands, and watching through shattered glasses.

"Kill them!" Trask ordered his youngest recruit.

Gabe stared at Erik. At Hank pushing himself out of the flower bed. At Alex's firm, concerned gaze and waiting, circling energy emanating from his chest.

"Kill them, goddammit!" Trask shrieked as he wrenched the helmet from Peter's head.

"Gabe, you don't have to do this," Hank said compassionately, taking a small step forwards.

Gabe panicked and shot a blast of energy at Hank. Hank ducked to the side, letting it singe the skin on his arm.

"Gabe! Stop it!" Alex demanded angrily, taking a step forwards. "I don't want to have to use my powers against you, but I will if you don't stop!"

Trask shoved his head into the helmet and kept his gun on Peter's forehead.

Charles groaned beside Erik, still mentally engaged in a vicious battle against Emma. Both were sweating, pained, gritting their teeth, and clutching their heads.

Gabe shot his energy at his brother, but Alex used his own beam to deflect it. Gabe tried again, and Alex repeated his defense easily. Alex advanced a step, and Gabe stumbled backwards. Gabe shot again, and Alex deflected.

"Get up!" Trask demanded of Peter. He recognized that he was only getting out of this alive through a hostage negotiation.

But Peter was deadbeat tired. Peter had a concussion. Peter's shoulder was a bleeding-out agony. He didn't think he could move.

" _Get up!_ " Trask shouted again, burying the barrel deeper into the skin of Peter's forehead.

Peter tried pushing himself up onto his good arm, but his vision swam. He swayed at that small movement and tried to focus on not getting sick.

"If you think I'm not serious," Trask threatened furiously as he cocked the gun, "I—"

The sound of metal crunching was so immediate and close that Peter instinctively ducked. He felt something warm spray over him before a weight collapsed across his feet. He peeked his head up to see Trask's body on his shoes. Trask's head was all but decapitated as the helmet crushed in on itself. Peter was covered in that man's blood.

Gabe shrieked and set blast after blast at Alex. But Alex was unshakeable, marching for his brother. Gabe panicked and tried shooting a blast over at Peter, just to distract them. Alex sent a blast of his own in Peter's direction, intercepting Gabe's and smashing into the earth.

Hank rushed over to Raven just as Erik threw Charles a glance and hurried to Peter.

"We've gotta help him, Dad," Peter begged, staring at Charles. Charles was trembling, his face a mask of blanched agony, as he held his head. Emma was on her knees, palms to her temples, but she didn't tremble like Charles did. She didn't grunt and cry out like Charles did.

Charles wasn't going to win.

"Shh, he'll be fine," Erik said, dropping to the grass and pulling his son into his arms.

Peter's vision swayed dangerously at the movement. But he forced himself to focus because this was Uncle Charles. "Dad, he can't do it. He can't do it, and then Emma—"

"I know."

Peter blinked rapidly and fought off a wave of nausea. "Send, send a car at her."

Erik stiffened against his son. "Their minds are interlocked. If I end her now, I don't know how it will damage Charles."

Peter couldn't do a thing. He could only watch, frozen to his spot on the front lawn. Peter could only witness as the strongest man he knew writhed against a stronger force.

With Raven limp in his arms, Beast rushed past the Professor and into the mansion.

"Gabe, don't make me hurt you, you idiot!" Alex screamed, all but chasing his brother at this point.

Gabe sprinted, throwing shot after shot wildly. "I hate you! I hate this stupid place, and I hate this stupid family! I wish you would all just _die!_ "

Peter scowled at those words. That kid had been his _friend_ —and he was wishing Peter dead. Peter wanted to sprint over and shove his fist into that kid's face again.

Erik squeezed Peter's arm comfortingly. "His brother will handle him."

"AH!" Charles screamed out, writhing in his chair. Emma gave a grunt of pain but seemed to be holding her own much better than the Professor.

"Dad," Peter whined worriedly.

Peter felt his father swallow. He looked up to see a tear roll down Erik's cheek. Slowly, Erik's shaking hand rose from Peter's shoulder to extend towards the telepaths.

"If…" Erik breathed. "If Charles can't… can't, I will end Emma before she has the chance to blink."

Peter's lips trembled. Emma would die, that was certain. It was just a matter of when.

When Charles would inevitably die first.

"Stop!" Alex shouted, tackling his brother into the dirt. The two rolled, energy bursts flying between the two of them. Alex clamped his hands around Gabe's wrists, and Gabe tried angling his palms towards the ground to achieve flight. Alex twisted his brother's wrists right into their pressure points, making Gabe stop glowing to cry out.

Charles's teeth were clenched so tightly that the garbled sound of agonized effort barely escaped his mouth.

"You're not going to win," Emma told him around her pants. Her glare carried an edge of triumph.

Charles managed to get his widened, tortured eyes to look to Erik and Peter. Because they were the things he wanted to die seeing.

With blood dripping from his ears and nose, Charles accepted that he would die within moments.

And then Emma shrieked. She clawed desperately at her hair, at her head, her sharp nails ripping into the skin at her temples. She wanted something out desperately.

As Charles collapsed back in his chair, a figure appeared behind him. The figure marched forwards slowly, their body angled directly at Emma.

They had long red hair and the stony expression of a god.

"Jean," Peter breathed in a relieved wonder.

Jean's eyes were glowing as she stepped out of the shadows. She extended her hand towards Emma and moved around Charles to glide down the porch.

Emma was writhing against the dirt, screaming and drooling and clutching her red face.

" _I can feel you dying,_ " Jean said in a voice that was not entirely her own.

Emma continued shrieking. "G-get out! My head is, is _on fire_!"

" _Ashes to ashes,_ " Jean's echoing voice said. " _Dust to dust._ "

And Emma let out the most blood-curling scream, piercing the very sky itself.

And then Emma Frost slumped into the dirt, her head lolling and her eyes unseeing. Entirely dead.

Jean's blazing eyes stared at the corpse before slowly rising and unseeingly looking at Peter and Erik.

"Jean," Charles called weakly, using his trembling arms to pull himself more upright. "Come back to us."

Scott ran out from the mansion, taking in the sight of everything quickly and anxiously.

"Jean!" Charles called with a grimace. He put two fingers to his temple and painfully tried to connect to her mind. "It's alright! Let the power go!"

Her head swiveled from Erik and Peter to stare unseeingly at Gabe. She rose a finger to the boy, and her echoing voice said, " _He assaulted me._ "

"He's a boy!" Charles pled desperately. "Don't focus on him, Jean. Focus on the sound of my voice. Come back to it."

Scott ran forwards and grabbed Jean's shoulders. He stood between his girlfriend and his brother with a tormented expression. "Please. Jean. Can you hear me?"

Her eyes continued to blaze, and her point didn't waver.

"Jean, listen to me," Scott pled, placing his hands on her cheeks. "I need you. _I need you_ , OK? I need you to come back."

Jean's finger twitched. " _Those against us must be punished._ "

"Yeah, I agree, but, God, don't kill him," Scott pled. He stroked flowing red hair from her face. "Please. I need you. I need Jean." He slammed his mouth against hers, and her point wavered. Scott pulled back and looked at her face before bringing his lips back down to hers. He kissed her hard, and he kissed her desperately.

Jean's arm slowly returned to her side.

"Come back, Jean," Scott murmured in-between kisses.

Slowly, the fire dimmed in Jean's eyes. Her eyes blinked, once, twice, and then they were blue. And Jean was back.

Charles relaxed in his chair while the couple desperately embraced each other.

Peter felt as his father relaxed.

"Get off me!" Gabe shouted from the grass. Alex continued wrestling him into submission.

"For Christ's sake," Charles muttered to himself as he rubbed his head. He pointed two fingers in that direction and waved them without looking.

Gabe quieted into unconsciousness.

Peter let himself relax into his father's hold then.

Erik clenched him closer and kissed the top of his silver head. "It's over, Pietro."

Peter closed his eyes, gripped the sleeve of his father's shirt, and let himself believe it.

 

* * *

 

_**July 1970, Home** _

"If you don't stop nagging me, I'm going to make you eat dirt, McCoy!" blue-skinned Raven threatened.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Hank shot back with flailing hands. "If you keep exerting yourself, you're going to hurt yourself!"

Raven smirked evilly. "But you know how much I enjoy exerting myself."

Hank's eyes widened behind his glasses.

Raven launched herself at him, smothering her mouth to his and wrapping her blue legs tightly around his waist. Hank dazedly stumbled backwards before falling back into the thick grass.

"Ugh, gross," Peter commented, watching them. He wasn't really grossed out; he was happy for them, and he was happy that his favorite aunt was back and healthy. But Peter didn't want the attention on him.

"You're stalling, Peter," Charles commented from under the shade of a large oak tree. He was sprawled out on a picnic blanket, wearing sunglasses and lazily watching his two favorite men.

"No, I'm not!"

Erik rolled his eyes and held out a hand. "If it'll get you to step into the water, you can hold onto my arm."

Peter swallowed and stared doubtfully at the pond water. Sure, his dad was standing at waist-deep water, but that'd easily go up to Peter's _chest_.

"What if, like, a current pulls me under?" Peter asked doubtfully.

Erik stared hard at his son. "It's a pond, Pietro; there isn't a current."

Peter glanced around, trying to find an excuse. "OK, but what if a really big fish bites my leg and pulls me under?"

"The largest fish in here is the size of my finger."

Peter's eyebrows rose. "Like, your longest, biggest finger?"

Erik stared back.

Peter gulped. He wasn't getting out of this. He was already in his swim trunks, and his dad was in swim trunks, and his dad was already all wet and would probably tackle him if he chickened out now.

"You need to know how to swim, Pietro," Erik said sternly. "Especially if you insist on running on water."

Peter stared anxiously at the gentle water. This was do or die. He would do it. He would rip it off like a Band-Aid. He took a deep breath and then launched himself into the water, running so that it immediately submerged his legs and waist and chest—

Erik easily caught him by his arms before the teen could dunk himself further.

Peter took a shaky breath as he stared at the water.

Erik's hands were firm as they held his son. "OK, start kicking your legs—slowly."

With a large amount of faith, Peter gripped his father's arms and let his feet float and kick the water. After a minute, he was able to adjust his speeds so that he went slow enough to not become a motor but fast enough not to sink.

"Good," Erik approved. "Now, I'm going to hold your waist, and you're going to move your arms like I showed you earlier."

While Erik's hands held Peter's waist, Peter didn't release his hold on his father's arms.

"I have you, Pietro," Erik assured him.

Peter gave Erik a look of reluctant, panicked trust and let his fingers release his dad's arms. He began flailing immediately, desperately clawing to keep his head above water.

"Swipe your hands down and out," Erik reminded him, squinting away from all of the frantic splashes.

At a rapid speed, Peter made his hands do the technique. And… And it worked. Peter found that he was able to stay as buoyant as he wanted when he adjusted his speed with that technique. Peter grinned up at his dad, and Erik smiled back.

"Are you ready?" Erik checked.

"Yeah!"

"Remember, you can touch the ground at this point in the pond—"

Peter shot out of Erik's hands, swimming circles around the metal-bender. He laughed as he got progressively faster.

Peter then left his father's side, swimming through the center of the pond and to the other side. He stood at the other side with a large, victorious grin, and then he launched himself back through the water.

Erik's smile was fond as the teen excitedly swam back and forth. Figuring the teen no longer needed his assistance, Erik slicked back his wet hair and hauled himself out of the water.

From the blanket, Charles smirked and watched as Erik strode towards him. "That's a sight that I could never tire of." He placed his arms behind his head and crossed his ankles.

Erik plopped down beside him and indicated his head towards the swimming teen. "A hyperactive swimmer?"

Charles laughed. "That too."

Erik smirked and settled back to watch his son swim. "Teaching him would have been twice as easier if you'd used your powers to calm him."

Charles rose a leg to the trees and reminded, "Leg day."

Erik's eyes traveled up the leg as it lowered.

"I received a letter from Alex today," Charles commented. "Apparently, the center has done wonders for Gabriel already."

Erik grunted his acknowledgement.

"And Jean and Scott accepted the part-time positions here while they attend university," Charles added.

Erik nodded and kept his eyes on the little swimmer.

Charles reached out a hand and tenderly stroked Erik's jaw. "What're you thinking?"

Erik laid back on the blanket beside Charles. "That it's ironic that a telepath is asking about my thoughts."

Charles waited.

"And about Pietro. Gabe. That day."

Charles was patient.

Erik finally turned to Charles, his eyes exposed and sincere. "Seeing Pietro in that helmet is an image that has burned itself into my mind. I saw the horrors I committed in that helmet. And when I saw Gabe, I saw what Pietro could have been." Erik looked back to the swimming teen. "After everything that has hurt him, he remains pure. He's a miracle."

"He is," Charles agreed.

Erik returned his gaze to him. "I don't want our son to fall into a life where he wears that helmet."

Charles's heart skipped a beat at the mutually possessive pronoun. "He has us; he won't need to."

Erik's hand found Charles's.

"Hey, guys, look!" Peter enthusiastically called out. He put his arms close to his sides, kicked up rapidly to rise out of the water, and then skidded across the surface. "I'm a dolphin!" He laughed and continued his dolphin show, back and forth across the pond.

"Are you certain that you'd want to stay here?" Charles asked Erik teasingly. "There's hardly ever anything interesting occurring." He grinned and looked to Erik.

"Unfortunately, it's where Pietro and I belong," Erik played along in a disappointed tone.

Charles laughed and looked to the glorious building. "It is a rather remarkable mansion."

Erik's intense gaze didn't leave Charles. "I meant by your side."

Charles turned his head to Erik. Erik moved forwards and brushed Charles's sunglasses off. Slowly, he lowered his mouth to Charles's and kissed him.

Charles wrapped his arms around Erik, pulling his half-naked body against his. He kissed him deeply until Erik pulled back to smile down at Charles.

And Erik Lehnsherr was happy. He was living the dream: a healthy child, a roof over their heads, and a relationship with the man he loved. Even better—he was where he belonged.

 

**_The End_ **

 

**(But my muse is a temperamental bitch that couldn't let go of these characters, so I've written a couple of blurbs of their lives after this story.  I will post those in a separate story sometime in the future.)**

**Please drop a review and tell me your thoughts!  I hope you've enjoyed this story as much as I have.**


End file.
